The Prince of Gallows and the White Raven
by skylights22
Summary: "Grim is the doom of norns." When a young boy from Durmstrang is found to be their son, the Potters are not the only ones convinced of miracles, but darkness treads on his heels and no matter who he comes to love, or who loves him, his Fate is decided. Slash/gore HPDM
1. Ye, though I walk through the valley

Through the eye of god we see no evil

It is but a veil of truths

We seek the all-seeing

One with the tongue of Jörmungandr

And the eye of Odin approaches

Born as the seventh month dies

He will be touched

By a son of Fenrir

And by the hellhound Garmr

He cries but no one will hear him

He will die and no one will save him

On the night of the last moon

His enemy will come to him

And Midgard will be drenched in his salts

A power the Dark Lord knows not

Resides in the heart of man

One to control and one to obey

One to die so the other may live

Born as the seventh month dies

A hero will walk through the nine worlds

To the Isle of Mists

Retrieve the raven Munin

Seek the volva

Beware the trickster's lies and the cane of mistletoe

May Thor receive you

May Odin own you.

o.O.o

Draco watched him. He had been doing nothing but watching for eternity.

Harry's hand was limp on the bedside, just like the rest of him. His chest rose and fell. His eyes remained shut, and every day that nothing changed Draco felt the same mixture of relief and despair.

He wasn't dying, but he wasn't waking up.

Lily and James were common fixtures in the infirmary. Harry had been settled in the school hospital, acquiring a bed all of his own. By now, it probably should have had his name on it. Lily, who for the past few months could not retain her teaching career and watch over her sick son, refused to allow his separation from her. Therefore, it had been decided that boy wonder would stay at Hogwarts. It wasn't like the nursing staff and healers at St. Mungos could do anything for him anyway.

Narcissa too was seen floating about the ward, helping Poppy with her own interrupted Healer training. He supposed now that the war was finally and truly over, his mother could return to her mastery. So many people were free. Severus' Mark was gone, and James, Sirius, and Remus no longer felt the overwhelming need to protect their loved ones.

So many people had been freed, but the one person who mattered, who deserved it more than anyone else, was still imprisoned in his mind. He had saved them all only to become trapped by his power, lost in his soul or his body or his mind or… Damn it! Anything!

Why wasn't he waking up? Why wasn't he celebrating their victory with him? Why wasn't he smiling, teasing Draco with the dark shimmer of power in those full beautiful eyes?

It wasn't fair! He had promised to be here. He had promised that he was going to love him, that they could be together. Why wasn't he here now? What made him think that this sacrifice would be worthy of Voldemort's destruction?

For the thousandth countless time, Draco felt hot tears burn his eyes. He grabbed hold of Harry's hand, trying not to feel the hurt when Harry did not grab him back. His hand was cold, so cold.

He was beautiful lying on the sheets. His hair was still richly dark, a swathe of night as vibrant as Draco's own platinum locks. He was pale, years of Scandinavian climate giving him a complexion much like its icy slopes and frigid plains.

He had the cold majesty of a mountain peak about him. He was strong, lean with his chores and the harsh exercise of frosty mornings and running track in the snow. He was Draco's size, his chest just a tiny bit broader, expanded to breath in high altitudes and icy winds. He was delicate too, like a glass sculpture, but his edges were sharp, his brow fine and his cheeks high.

Draco couldn't bear to see him like this. Harry had never looked weak to him. He had always had such regal bearing, even in the humiliation of servitude. He had always been so strong.

Sixteen, he had so much of the world to see. This was supposed to be the beginning, their beginning. It was never supposed to be this way.

Draco leaned over his lover's hand and cried. He felt his mother rest a hand on his shoulder, but it felt cold, too cold, and Draco had to wonder if perhaps he too were dying, having sat beside Harry so long that the chill had spread from one body to the next.

The thought was hallowing, but Draco dare not move away. His mother eventually left, but he maintained his vigil. He brushed the hair along Harry's brow, silently praying for him to wake up.

o.O.o

It had not taken long after their marriage for Lily to get pregnant. They had both wanted to wait until after the war before trying to rear a child. But as her belly grew, they had grown to love the creature toiling for survival inside her womb.

The birth was difficult, administered by Poppy Pomfrey during a thunderstorm at Malfoy manor. They had come to view Narcissa's own little boy when Lily had gone into labor two months early. The thunderstorm had disrupted the Floo connections, and it was impossible for Lily to apparate. However, Pomfrey was still on hand, continuing her commission in helping to birth her student's first child. School was out, and she was not needed in the infirmary so she had opted to stay to help Narcissa care for her newborn.

Narcissa's pregnancy had been a difficult one as well, but there had been nowhere near the same amount of blood. The men waited in the atrium, as Lucius tried and failed to calm the frightened father and husband. His wife's screams echoed through the mostly empty manor. House elves popped in and out, bringing towels, basins of clean water, and vial after vial of blood replenishing potion.

It was not a good sign.

After long and intense hours, a baby's wail was heard. James had not waited for Narcissa and Poppy to open the doors before he came barreling through the entrance. The sight of the bloodstained towels littering the floor made a red carpet for him to wade through. He pushed past nausea, searching desperately for his wife.

She was lying across a multitude of pillows, her hair plastered to her sweaty forehead. She was much too tired and much too pale. James was afraid to admit that she looked like she was on the edge of death. Her eyes flickered over him, and she reached weakly for him.

He rushed to her side, holding onto her hand as tears came to his eyes.

"I did it," she said triumphantly, her voice barely above a whisper and thick with exhaustion.

James was unable to speak and brushed aside her matted hair. She sighed and leaned back. For a second, he was terrified she had died and rushed forward.

"She's sleeping," Poppy said, placing a hand on his arm.

She gradually led him away so she could tend to the exhausted mother. James floundered, unsure of what he should be doing. Everywhere he looked, bloody sheets glared back at him ruefully.

"Would you like to see your son?"

An infant was curled inside a thick sea of quilts in Narcissa Malfoy's arms. He was pink and wrinkled, resembling more of a baby seal than anything human, but he was clean. James looked at him. He was so small. His eyelids were transparent and purple veins stood out over his skin. The tuffs of hair on his head were bizarre. They were dark black and seemed to be the only thing recognizably human about him.

"My son?" James croaked.

Narcissa gave him an understanding smile and moved forward, placing the baby in his arms. The child squirmed while Narcissa helped him readjust his grip. His eyes were still shut and his hands were curled lightly in front of him.

James sputtered, feeling this great weight in his chest. He rocked the child in his arms, unable to believe that such a fragile creature existed, that he had been one once and that this was the emotion his father felt when he first held him, terrified and immeasurably proud.

Lucius placed an arm around his wife as they beamed at the new parent.

"He's remarkably healthy for being so premature," Narcissa said. "His crown's not fully formed but his lungs are functioning extremely well."

James nodded, but he really had no idea what the woman was saying.

His son. He had a son.

Harry. He had a son.

o.O.o

Harry was an exuberant youth. He was easily able to keep up with Draco even though the boy was a few months older. The two fought over attention, but whenever Harry made Draco cry, he was always there to give him a hug, which the women cooed over. He was going to be a charmer.

Harry formed a fond attachment to Severus Snape of all people, who often came to visit his godson. Harry constantly wanted the severe man to pick him up and hold him. Severus of course griped at this, but he never denied the child.

Sirius doted upon the boy like an over-enthused grandparent. Lily constantly worried that her son would be spoiled rotten by excess stuffed animals, but Harry was happier playing with his godfather than harboring the toys. He was never shy in sharing his things with Draco and the Longbottom boy whenever he came over.

He was quicker to laugh than he was to cry, and all the adults adored him, even Severus, who was still rather shocked by Harry's fondness for him. Harry would be the Potter's only child because the birth had clearly destroyed Lily's womb. Lily and James didn't mind though. Harry was enough as it was.

For his first birthday, friends and family convened at the Potter manor. James' parents had recently passed away, and he had no siblings. Lily didn't really care for the long halls and empty corridors and was thinking of inviting Remus, Peter, and Sirius to live with them when disaster struck.

The wards on the manor fell. Death Eaters swarmed the mansion, and Severus was forced to flee before someone recognized him and successfully deciphered his allegiances. Narcissa grabbed her son and Harry and portkeyed back to Malfoy Manor. The waiting was horrible.

After what seemed like forever, her husband, James and Lily stumbled through the wards. Remus, Sirius and Peter soon followed. All of them looked the worse for wear. They collapsed into the closest chairs and couches, clothes singed and smoking, ripped and torn. Narcissa set her son on the floor and collapsed into Lucius' lap, not saying anything but holding onto his chest.

The Dark Lord had wanted to invite the Potters to his festivities. It was the third time he had extended the offer and the third time James had denied him. This was the first time however that it had turned to blows. The Marauders and Malfoy had held their own. Lucius, who had been conferring with the Dark Lord on the basis of neutrality, was forced to reveal his hand.

Voldemort had not taken two rejections easily. They had escaped mostly unharmed but the Potter Manor was destroyed. But worse, a new fear had been set into them.

Harry and Draco were both sitting on the floor, not understanding the situation but reading the melancholy mood that fell over their loved ones. They stared up into eyes suddenly filling with fear. Harry reached for his mother. She choked a sob, pulling the boy to her chest, where she clung to him desperately.

They started when Severus came through the Floo. He looked worse than they did. His body trembled with the aftereffects of the Crutiatus Curse, and he clung to the mantel for support. He stared at all of them, counting heads before he sagged.

"Thank Merlin."

He had come here directly from a session. Voldemort must have been _pissed_. Severus hadn't even been there (as far as Voldemort knew) and he had still been tortured. Narcissa stood, guiding the man further into the room. He leaned heavily on her shoulder. Remus and Sirius vacated the couch so he could lie down.

Harry squirmed in Lily's lap, trying to go to him, but she had kept a firm hand on her son. He struggled stronger and started to whine, his eyes trained on Severus' prone figure. Tears began to fill his eyes.

"Harry, enough!" Lily shouted.

Everybody stopped. Lily covered her mouth in horror. Harry sniffled.

"M' sorry," he said in gargled English and with his stuffy nose.

Lily stared at him and started crying. Those were his first words, and she had wasted them. She held him closer.

"No, I'm sorry, sweetie. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

James rested a hand on her shoulder. She was so scared. She had dueled the Dark Lord tonight but it did not measure to the terror she saw when she looked into Harry's big green eyes.

"You're not alone, Lily," Sirius said. "You have all of us. We'll protect him."

She nodded and clung to her child, who did not understand the tears running down his mother's face. Narcissa held Draco near. Their family had now become targets, but she could not begrudge her husband. She would have done the same to protect Lily and James and beautiful, gorgeous Harry.

o.O.o

Under the instruction of Dumbledore, the Potters went into hiding. Severus revealed that Voldemort was searching them out more aggressively than had been his wont. He wanted something from them.

Voldemort had never offered a position in his ranks twice, much less thrice. There was something about the Potters that made him obsessed. The Malfoys remained behind the wards of the Manor, discussing battle tactics and protection spells with the Order. Severus attended more and more meetings, and each one was worn on his soul. The remaining Marauders hunted Death Eaters, following the Order's assignments.

Lily and James chafed at their confinement but mollified themselves by remembering that it was all for Harry. On Halloween night, Sirius was struck with a curse that put him on a deathbed. Lily and James were called to St. Mungos. They left their child with Peter since Remus was on an assignment with other werewolves.

Sirius was beginning to miraculously stabilize when they felt the wards around the house flare. They sprinted together to the Floo, but the connection had been severed. They called the Order, apparating to Godric's Hollow. The house seemed intact and peaceful, but they were not deceived. They ran to the entrance to be repealed by the wards that were designed to keep them safe.

They banged at the shield, yelling. The Order members gathered and shot spells, but the wards were too intricate. They were strong, created to withstand all penetration. How had Voldemort gotten past them? How did he know where they were?

Suddenly, red splattered the windows. Bits of flesh dripped down. Lily screamed. The silencing spell that had kept all sounds within the house broke. Harry's crying ripped through the night. They battled against the ward, but there wasn't enough time to dismantle them. They fought relentlessly.

Lucius poured magic into them, hoping to overwhelm the foundation stones, until he collapsed. Dumbledore's spells glided across the surface of the ward, absorbed and dissipated into the air. Lily was on the ground, crying helplessly. They could do nothing.

Green light shone through the window of the nursery. The crying stopped. Lily's wail ripped through them, filled with anguish, a horrible ripping, burning pain. James held her, his hands bruising her as he tried to contain himself.

The Order waited for Voldemort to appear, to flaunt them with his triumph and their despair, but he never came. Slowly, the house began to fall in on itself. The beams broke, and they watched as the roof caved as if something had imploded within it. The horrible creaking and cracking of the old cabin turned into wooden snaps. Magic squealed as it was sucked into the void.

They watched as the wards, the wards even Dumbledore could not break, snapped under the pressure. Magic swirled like a maelstrom, and sparks caught fire to the surrounding brush, burning holes through their clothes. Just as soon as it started, with a loud boom that knocked them back, the oxygen in the air was compressed, ripping the fire into dust. It haloed out, vibrated for a second and fell.

Nothing of the house remained. Empty air remained over a brown patch of dirt. There were no wards, not even the scented echo. Everything was gone. The house, Peter, Voldemort, and Harry.

Silence hung.

The muggles in the town sang as they skipped to the next house a block over. Trails of trick-or-treat shadowed Harry Potter's departure from the world.


	2. Only Wyrd, Verda, and Skuld

_When the stars threw down their spears_

_And watered heaven with their tears_

_Did He smile his work to see?_

_Did He who made the lamb make thee?_

~ "The Tyger" by William Blake

Harry was hailed a hero. James and Lily never really recovered. They learned to live with the pain. They carried on their lives, but the bright flame that had resided in both their eyes had been extinguished.

Lily took a teaching job at Hogwarts, becoming the Defense of the Dark Arts professor. The children loved her, but she could not help but see an echo of her son in their young faces.

James remained an Auror but he also retained a position on Lucius' staff as his personal guard. After the shadow of the war seemed to pass and the Death Eaters were rounded up, he didn't have much to occupy his time, and the position was the only thing at times that kept him sane.

Sirius blamed himself. He reasoned that if he hadn't gotten hurt, Peter wouldn't have died and Voldemort wouldn't have taken Harry into the underworld with him. Remus was the only one able to pull him out of a bottle, but it was Severus' stern remarks about Harry being ashamed of him that pulled Sirius completely into sobriety. He worked in the Ministry as a Dark Artifact Regulator while Remus was given a desk job in the ubiquitous offices that served as puncture wounds in the Department of Public Safety.

It seemed normalcy had returned to the world. No one healed. Young Harry's laughter still echoed in their memories even well after he would have become a teenager. Draco grew into a stunning young adult. He inherited his father's regal bearing but his mother's compassion. He didn't have much of a hand at healing, but he served well as Severus' potion apprentice.

Lily couldn't help but think of her son whenever she saw him. They would be almost the same age. She wondered what he would have been like. Would he be like Draco, inheriting his father's face but her quick temper and sympathizing eyes? Perhaps, he would be nothing at all like them, something new and fresh and completely unique.

She would cry herself to sleep at night, holding his old baby blanket, and the next morning she would face her inquisitive students with a smile.

Years passed. Some things changed, but most stayed the same. Draco turned seven, then eleven, then thirteen. He attracted attention like a flame moths. He bloomed charmingly in certain areas and was devastating in other. Eyes lingered, but with true Malfoy grace, he did not acknowledge them.

Lily thought it was amusing. He was rather pompous, but she suspected it was just a phase. He had a good heart.

The year he turned sixteen was the same year that Dumbledore scheduled the return of the Triwizard's Tournament. Lily was against it, as was Severus, but Dumbledore was adamant that it would lift spirits and create cross-country unities.

The days were growing darker it seemed to Lily. Violence had escalated according to Remus, and Sirius reported that he had confiscated more illegal artifacts this year than the last three together. Something was coming, they said behind closed doors and silencing wards, but no one could say what.

They couldn't blame Dumbledore for wanting to cheer spirits. Merlin knew, they needed it. So, they settled for silent reproach and began the preparation to ready the school for their visitors. James and Lucius were called to Hogwarts, Lucius as a representative of the board and James as his guard. Sirius took a well-needed vacation, dragging Remus with him to convene with the rest of their friends.

It was still a surprise to see the Pegasus-led carriage flying through the air to land in a trumpet of stamping hooves before the school. The size of them was outstanding, but they were outmatched by their headmistress. Dumbledore greeted her affectionately, not having to bend at all to kiss her hand.

She rambled off in French in a rich baritone, portraying culture and pride in her tall stature. Her students huddled in the nippy autumn air, their cloaks too thin. It was an all-girl's school, and it seemed as though they had to meet some physical exam to warrant entrance. They were all amazingly pretty, fine French beauties. Draco would have competition.

It was not long after Beauxbatons Academy of Magic gained their bearings than the ground began to rumble. Few students called out earthquake, quickly quelled by the teachers. They turned to the lake as a large ship erupted from its dark depths.

Water shook from the deck, pouring through the gulley over the hull. The sails unfurled in a majestic whoosh, pulling the vessel towards the shore. It stopped short and several boats were lowered to the lake's surface. A tall, belligerent man stood at the bow of one. One foot rested at the head. He stood straight and arrogant.

As he neared, they could see bushy black hair covering most of his face. He was a thick man with a harsh accent and shifty eyes. His smile was disgustingly self-assured. Dumbledore greeted him politely to which the headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, responded to over-enthusiastically.

He snapped at his students in a harsh language to pull in the boats. His students jumped to obey, though one stood off to the side, reviewing his surroundings stoically.

Sirius gaped as he recognized the famous face of Victor Krum, seeker extraordinaire. He elbowed James, who gave him a roguish grin.

They began herding the students inside. Durmstrang's students were blocky characters obscured by thick, heavy fur coats. The air, which was frigid for the French, much be very warm to the Icelanders. Already, they were flapping their coats, trying to shed the layers while their headmaster was not looking.

As everyone herded inside towards the awaiting feast, no one noticed the lone figure moving about the deck, shuffling between the bilge and the headmaster's quarters with languid ease.

o.O.o

Dyre didn't know how these English people could stand the climate here. Already he was working under a sweat. This was autumn? They must be joking.

He had no problem shedding his shirt as the night air hit him. He was busy cleaning the deck and arranging the quarters and did not have time to think about the feast he was missing. Victor might save him something if he was so inclined, but as for now, Dyre was happy to be left alone.

He lifted his head, wiping his forehead. The scars on his back stretched not painfully but tight. The ship's submersion had been cleaned and nothing of the flopping fish and seaweed remained. Everything had been polished, and the trash of a dozen rowdy boys and seven more conservative girls had been swept away.

Night had fallen, and he knew that Igor was going to be back any minute with the rest of his entourage. The feast had most likely extended to greet the new guests. Wizards could never resist the urge to make spectacles of themselves, and he doubted this Dumbledore was much different.

He sat at the deck, letting the breeze caress his skin and raise flesh. The stars were bright tonight but not as bright as in the Nordic mountains, where Durmstrang was nestled between peaks. He missed the air. It was only the first day, but he already missed the long halls and simplistic designs of the old dwellings.

He looked over at the castle. The English were so flamboyant. Hogwarts had a pretty charm to it, but Durmstrang was strength. It was a hodge-podge of old Viking halls, modified after each generation to fit the growing generations. Great towers served as lookout before the one passageway between the crags, and they remained there as observation towers. The Peace-Weavers gathered there, the Norns' maidens. They never left the tower after induction.

Dyre saw them in their white sheaths, Celtic belts at their waists holding ceremonial daggers. They were always running, as if time was precious and to waste it by walking was blasphemous.

Igor did not rule over the tower. That was saved for the Maiden.

Dyre's gaze swept over the sky as yearning filled him, bitter with sorrow. He should not dwell on such thoughts. Yrsa would be upset with him to know he had been brooding.

He picked out constellations, seeing signs no man would know, secrets imparted only between mother and sister and daughter. The Wyrd was not for man's eyes, but Dyre was different. The Maiden had said so.

He wished she were here. He missed her arms and the hum of her voice.

The dogs would be missing him as well. Loki and Levi, his hellhounds, would howl tonight. They would upset the cattle and milk would sour, but it couldn't be helped. Igor had insisted his servant follow him to this godforsaken isle.

Scotland was not so different than England he supposed. He wished he could go to Avalon. At least in England, he might have glimpsed the Isle, but Scotland was too distant from the mystic shores. He needed to see it before he left. He had promised Yrsa since she could never leave the tower. It was right on the list next to Atlantis, El Dorado, and the Hanging Gardens.

The sound of boats reached him. He sat up. Donning his shirt once more, he went below deck. Igor would call for him if need be, but otherwise he was going to his bunk. The ship was an old Viking design, modified with expansion charms and spelled to maneuver on magic instead of men.

Each bunk consisted of four hammocks and enough room for four people to live comfortably. The proximity of a usual bilge was absent in the magical vessel. The girls were separated by a single wall and a divided stair. No spells were needed, as any man daring to venture into the females' territory would soon find himself missing a few precious pieces. The women took care of their own. Weakness was not abided in the mountains.

Dyre's bunk was more of a storage cabin. He slept with the mops and buckets. But, it was dry, and he got his privacy. He pulled out the hammock as footsteps were heard above. The revelries were going to begin soon. He didn't even want to think of how many were going to drink themselves into stupors that night.

The students of Durmstrang tended to drink whenever there was cause to celebrate and often when there weren't. Coming to a new school was reason enough to them, and Dyre was soon subject to the sounds of bawdy laughter and music. He lied in the hammock, hoping they would forget about him in their mead.

When no one pounded on his door, Dyre let himself fall into a light sleep. Dreams of green light, mad laughter, and corpse hands encompassed him. He fell through darkness, seeing stars and Yrsa screaming for him, but he considered it a good night.

In his hammock, Dyre Harald Durmstrang dreamed, eyes flickering back and forth over images he didn't understand. The long jagged scar that ran over his right eye throbbed. The milky white orb, blind and beautiful as Artic ice, swam with illusions, calling to him in the soft whisper of Other. His other green eye was troubled only by the usual nightmares, nightmares any boy of his circumstance should have.

But it was the right eye, the eye that Knew, that pulled the boy into darkness.

o.O.o

Lily thought this tournament might not turn out so horrible after all. Her husband was sitting beside her and to his other side was Lucius and then Severus. Remus was beside her and Sirius beside him. She had everyone she loved around her.

No one had blown anything up, and the first night had passed without trouble. It was breakfast and the Great Hall was open to wandering students. Most of Durmstrang was already sitting at the Slytherin table, early risers. Draco was up as well and was conversing lightly with Victor Krum. Her husband and Sirius were eying him jealously. Draco preened.

Lucius shook his head at his son, remembering how he had been at that age. Young with the world at his feet and invulnerability in his eyes. Draco was at least moderately wiser, much kinder to the world than Lucius had been.

Madame Maxine, the Beauxbatons headmistress, was already at the table, though very few of her students had followed her example. The few that were eating were at the Ravenclaw table. Their soft beryl uniforms fit well in the house. They sat primly on the bench, obviously masters of etiquette.

The Durmstrang females were heartier. They had a powerful strength about them, quite contrary to the French girls' sly, devious eyes. They were dark to their fair, with eyes like Snape's. They dressed conservatively in thick hose and long dresses. The chests braced different crests, all done in a burgundy red with dull gold trim. They had traditional braids that made their faces overly severe. They did not look like they laughed often.

Some of the teachers were alarmed to see that they wore armor. They had vambraces on their forearms, polished meticulously. Still, faint scarring was visible, appearing to be cast by a blade, not a wand. Indeed, on their belts were a single sheathed dagger and a line of vials. Dumbledore had warned the teachers that asking them to remove their dagger was very insulting. They were not allowed to unsheathe it outside class anyway.

The men were not as fastidious and much more jovial, just not in early morning. They were clean-shaven and just as dark as their women. They too wore vambraces and had a dagger at their belts, which were considerably thicker that the girl's Celtic ones. The leather was unadorned. The belts looped back over so that the end dangled. They too wore varying crests and had the same dirty red and dull gold.

Most wizards these days wore muggle attire under their robes. It was mostly casual-dress wear with dragon leathers. The Durmstrang students wore traditional robes with leather trousers, thick black-soled boots, and doublets. They were not a pretty group, but many of them were handsome. Even Victor with his broken nose and limp was roguishly striking, a beauty honed of raw strength.

After a while, Karkaroff entered the hall. The students stood for him, waiting until he sat before returning to conversation and food. He sat on the other side of Sirius, near the center of the table. Dumbledore was on his right, conversing with Madame Maxine in soft French.

Lily didn't think much of his entrance, busy gossiping lightly with her husband. It wouldn't have been of much consequence if Karkaroff's entrance had not preceded the entrance of another. No one really noticed as the lone figure entered the hall, occupied by the new students and half-asleep.

Even Dumbledore did not look up from his conversation. But that single entrance would change all of their lives and the course of history and the future to come.

o.O.o

Dyre was pissed. Karkaroff had told him to stay on the ship. The man probably expected him to stay on the blasted ship all damn year. Well, he was not going to have it.

Karkaroff had left his papers. The documents were important. He had left a deputy headmaster in charge, but the man still needed Karkaroff's signature on files. Otherwise, the merchant's shipment of potion ingredients and their yearly harvest were going to go to waste.

Really, it was a few seconds. Read through the damn thing and sign it. Dyre would see it along, as he always did.

This was a perfect excuse to commandeer a dinghy and go inside the school. Perhaps he might not be able to visit Avalon, but he was going to be able to see the inside of an authentic medieval castle.

The students were waking up sparingly and groggy bickering could be heard from the bunks. Dyre went past them quietly with reassured silence. He was so used to not being seen that it was easy to pretend he was invisible. People might notice a vagrant skulking on deck, but no one noticed an errand boy.

Papers in hand, he lowered the dinghy into the calm waters. His arms were strong from the harvest and chores, and it took no time at all for him to reach shore. He landed on the outskirts of a forest. This forest was not so different than the one in Durmstrang, though the trees were too condensed and lively. The tall evergreens he was used to were too sparse. This forest seemed stout to him. Without the deadly crags and cropping, it didn't look that dangerous either. Just dark.

Dyre liked the dark.

The forest called to him. Its whisper was not as seductive as the Jötnar's Forest. It was wet and lush, reminding Dyre of the bækhesten in the Crystal Lake. He supposed that amounted to a kelpie here.

He continued on, ignoring the cunning beckoning of the wood. Hogwarts was a lot bigger up close. Its style was old, but it didn't have the linger of tragedy, of work and battle, infused in the stone. It felt like knowledge, which was powerful in its own way, but it did not speak of survival and endurance like the halls of Durmstrang.

He was startled to realize that they had ghosts. All the spirits lingering at home had been long exorcised. He wondered idly if the necromancers could enter this place.

It took him several dead ends to finally find the Great Hall. The doors were open, and Dyre could see the five tables, four vertical and one horizontal, in the hall. This place had nothing on the great mead halls of the north. It was nice that they had spelled the ceiling to look like the sky, but he thought it a bit childish.

The high beams of the halls in Durmstrang were wrought in runes. The intricate design covered the entire ceiling. They swirled, mixing magicks, changing until nothing of the original remained. It was protection against Hel's minstrels and the demon children of the wood. There was blood in those of the old sacrifices from at time when a man's ox meant more than his life.

The older patrons of the school gathered there for drinking, and it was some of the grandest celebrations Dyre had ever seen. It lasted all night and no one was coherent by morning. There was music and dancing. The lyres were passed around, and women would pluck at the strings, singing in voices hardened by the mountain cold. The old songs were all about war and death and heroes, and Dyre had always been enamored by them.

Pushing aside fond memories, he entered the hall. A medley of students was eating breakfast, and great gaps existed on the benches. No one noticed him walk in, and he preferred it that way. He spotted Victor but did not linger to interrupt his conversation with a supple-looking blonde lord. Karkaroff was at the table, switching between eying his students and glaring at the dark man at the end of the table.

Still unseen, Dyre walked behind the chairs. At a few feet away, Karkaroff sensed him and looked up. He scowled reproachfully, but before he could say anything, Dyre had leaned in, pulling up the papers and a quill.

"Headmaster, these need your signature."

Karkaroff glared at him but snatched the quill. As he finished, Dyre was prepared to leave and explore the school, honing his memory for Yrsa to dissect later. However, a sharp gasp stole his attention. He looked up and met with the greenest eyes he had ever seen, save his own.

o.O.o

Lily had turned to say something to Sirius when the sight of a boy shocked her into silence. His head was down, but the wild black hair was so reminiscent of her husband that she took pause. Karkaroff was signing papers under his instruction, and the boy looked smug about it.

There was a tiny lifting of the corner of his mouth that she could barely see. When Karkaroff finished, his head lifted, and she gasped. A horrible jagged scar ran down over his right eye, which was milky blue and blind. It looked old and stretched, residing over half his face. As disfiguring as it was, there was a raw beauty to it that emitted masculinity.

Her eyes were drawn to his face, a face that was the exact replica of James Potter. All but his left eye, which was an astonishing green that she would recognize any day from the mirror. She stared at him in complete shock, hope blooming resiliently in her chest.

"Harry?" she breathed.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I have been called that, my lady," he said warily in perfect English, only a hint of brutish accent on his tongue.

Lily's reaction had drawn the attention of her husband. James looked at his wife, following the line of her eyes to the boy across from her to the other side of Karkaroff. His jaw dropped. A slow silence began to flow across the table as one by one the people speaking turned to stare at what their partner had become so engrossed in.

Igor gave the child a hard stare. The boy was un-quelled, but backed away obediently.

"Is there something wrong, Mrs. Potter," Karkaroff asked.

Lily was unable to respond, her eyes only for the boy that was so devastatingly similar to her son.

"Perhaps you can tell us the name of your student, Igor," Dumbledore suggested lightly, but his eyes were serious and hard.

Igor frowned. "He is no student."

It was true. Dyre's robes were an un-dyed grey. The crest of the school was emblazed on his chest and he had no dagger in his belt or vambraces. He was smaller than the other boys, less stocky and more agile but he still carried the strength of a north-man.

"What is your name, my boy?" Dumbledore asked.

The boy looked at him warily, feeling like he had gotten in trouble for something he hadn't done. "Dyre, my lord."

"Is that your full name?"

Dyre's eyes narrowed. He didn't like this. Attention was not a good thing for him. It was never a good thing.

"Dyre Harald Durmstrang," he said evenly.

Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly at his last name. He turned back to Karkaroff. "Perhaps we should speak in my office."

Igor glared at Dyre, warning him that any reproach about him would come out of his hide. Dyre glared back, resolute in his innocence, but a cold trickle of dread was winding up his spine. He didn't have to be guilty to be punished.

He had no idea what was going on. He followed the troupe of teachers and his headmaster to Dumbledore's office. He felt cornered with so many adults around him and was studiously ignoring any of their attempts to speak with him. He knew better than that. He wasn't going to fall for any of their traps. Keep quiet and it can't make the situation any worse than it already is.

They moved to the study before Dumbledore's office since it would be too crowded around his overtaxed desk. Karkaroff took a seat, and Dyre stood by the wall, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into. So many people were staring at him, and he didn't understand the emotions in their eyes.

"You say your name is Durmstrang," Dumbledore said, trying to start the conversation back up again.

Dyre remained silent, looking to Karkaroff.

"He's a ward of the school," the headmaster supplied with both irritancy and impatience.

"How long has he been there?" the only woman, a fidgeted redhead, in the room asked.

Karkaroff shrugged indifferently. "He boards in the tower. He could have been there all his life."

"When did you first see him?" one of the men asked, a dark man with blue eyes and a sharp face.

"Eight or nine I suppose," he muttered offhandedly.

He had been six, and he would remember it for the rest of his life. He hated that man.

"Do you know how long you were there?" the woman asked him, her voice soft and gentle like he might startle at any moment.

Dyre slid further down the wall, away from her. "For as long as I can remember," he said honestly.

"What is this about?" Karkaroff snapped.

She searched her neck for a charm. It was a locket. She unhooked the back and opened it. "This is my baby. I lost him when he was one."

His headmaster took it from her, examining it. He frowned and handed it back. "And you think this… boy is your lost son?" he asked incredulously.

He didn't have to be so rude, Dyre thought, and his thought was echoed in the scowls most the men wore.

"His body was never found," she said resiliently, clasping the charm back around her neck.

"Preposterous," Karkaroff waved off. "This boy cannot be Harry Potter."

Dyre's eyes widened. These were the Potters? The infamous Potters, whose son destroyed a Dark Lord? They thought that was he?

"Why not?" the woman, Mrs. Potter, asked angrily, tears swimming in her eyes.

Karkaroff sneered. "He's a servant. What makes you think he's your son?"

"He looks exactly as I did in school," a new voice said, and Dyre turned his head to stare at him.

The man did bear an uncanny resemblance to himself. He stood strongly, slim and tall. There were similarities in the face, along the jaw and his cheekbones, which were obviously not Norse.

"Mere coincidence," Karkaroff said.

"Will you let us do a blood potion?" the woman pleaded.

Karkaroff laughed. "Do all the potions you want. This boy is worthless."

His statement was met with growls, one of which Dyre knew was not human. He was shocked that these people would defend him when they didn't even know him. He was pretty sure he wasn't this Potter kid, but it wasn't completely impossible either, he mused thoughtfully.

Karkaroff rose from his seat. "If you are finished with your ridiculous stories, I have students to teach."

And Dyre had chores to do, but he didn't want to leave. Karkaroff swept out of the room, but Dyre lingered behind him. His gaze landed on the redheaded woman, the mother. Her eyes were filled with such desperate hope that it broke him a little to see it. He truly hoped he was this person, just so he wouldn't have to watch the light in her eyes die.

"BOY!" Karkaroff shouted from down the hall.

Dyre lifted off the wall, but he was slow to obey. It would cost him later, but he was well used to his disobedience meriting punishment. He was hesitant to part with the woman's gaze as his feet dragged him closer to the door.

When Karkaroff grabbed hold of his elbow and pulled him roughly to his side, Dyre realized that he didn't even know her name.

o.O.o

Dyre's head was throbbing, and he was sore. Karkaroff's idea of punishment was tossing him to the older boys after dinner for them to make fun with as they chose. The hits he could handle, and even the humiliation he had gotten used to on some level, but he knew someday one of them was going to push it too far, and someone was going to die. Even if it weren't Dyre, his life would be forfeit. Lords did not take the deaths of their sons lightly.

He leaned over his hammock, spitting congealed blood from his mouth where it had pooled during the night. His head was pounding from sleeping with a concussion, and he could feel bruises reawakening on his body. He wondered if Victor would lend him some healing salves.

He lied there for a second. This was the first time that he had time to think about what had happened yesterday. He still didn't know their names beyond the surname Potter. Of course, he knew the story of the Halloween night and the defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort, but he didn't know much more beyond that. Most of his studies centered around Gwindelward Banebringer.

The Deathly Hallows symbol was scribed in the First Hall, and the halls still carried echoes of the travesties created there. His history lessons were about Olaf Trygvasson and Harald Wartooth, after whom he was named, not Merlin and Morganna. Although, the Maiden did allow him access to the archives, and he knew considerably more than a servant should know. But, he practiced in the ancient rituals, not politics.

It was too far-fetched. He couldn't be their child. He was the same age, and he looked very similar to the Potters. His remaining eye looked outrageously like that woman's. Still, it was just coincidence.

There is no coincidence. Only Wyrd, Ver∂a, and Skuld.

He turned over as the Maiden's words echoed through him. That which became, that which is happening, and that which needs be. He hated the Norns. He hated that fate had such a tight hold on man. He liked to think that he governed his own Wyrd, but it was not to be. If he owned his Wyrd, he would never have met the Maiden. Who knew how things might have transpired.

Perhaps, if he really were this Harry Potter, he would have grown up here with parents who clearly loved him. No beatings. No brands. He couldn't help but think that he would have grown up weak. He prided his strength and his endurance, but perhaps he would have been happier.

Or perhaps he would have been dead.

There was no way to tell. Yrsa always said he dwelled on what-might-have-been too much. He imagined her admonishing him, her eyes closed and her finger swaggering like she had seen the all-mothers do. Dyre smiled.

Karkaroff had ordered him to remain on the ship. Probably because he didn't want his maybe-family to see the bruises on his cracked face. They seemed to be the type to care about that sort of thing. Dyre just thought it was weird that they might care about him.

This ship was a four-tiered fort. It was big. Big, as in students could easily get lost and spend several hours trying to find their way out. If he left now, it would take forever for Karkaroff to find him or even realize he was missing. And, he could get back here and just say he was scrubbing the latrine. No one would look for him in there.

Plan in motion, he swung his legs over the hammock. Because of his wounds, he was more careful crossing the deck and stealing a boat, and it hurt his ribs to row. He decided to again ignore the forest in favor of exploring the castle while everyone was at breakfast.

The greenhouses were the first to catch his attention. The glass houses gleamed in the morning sun, coated with dew. It was cool inside. The plant life cooed in the sun, stretching leaves and fauna. Everything seemed brighter here, Dyre thought. Colors that would usually be muted by frost were vibrant.

He patted the red leaves of a Canary Eater. It bloomed, showing its cherry yellow center, which spread like a sunburst towards its leaves. Hence, the name. It provided a lot of ingredients for blood replenishing potions, but it was too tropical to be grown in the mountains. It was too tropical for England too, but Dyre supposed magic could make up for the differences here. Magic and an attentive host. They had neither in Durmstrang, the magic too dark. Attention was kept on Defense and Battle, not growing herbs. The act was considered _argr_, unmanly, and Lords did not send their daughters to learn how to plant flowers.

It was a shame, Dyre thought, his fingers caressing the underside of the plant, where downy thistles pricked careless animals and drew blood. The thistles turned suddenly sharp, sinking into Dyre's fingers. He gave no sign of pain as the hollow spines absorbed his blood. The plant grew redder and fuller like it was puckering its lips for a kiss.

Dyre smiled.

"Careful, child!" a voice called from across the greenhouse.

Dyre drew his hand away, disentangling from the bristles easily. The plant shivered, but fully feed, it did not reach for more. Dyre backed away from it. The woman that trotted down the aisle of plants had a thick girth and a kind face. Twisted grayish-brown curls flung out from the scarf on her head. There was dirt on her face and her apron, which was stained with saps and oils.

She took off her gloves, taking hold of Dyre's hand. His fingertips sported tiny wells of crimson blood. They didn't hurt, but they itched. She clucked her tongue matronly and pulled a bandage soaked in oils across his skin. He felt the thick syrup be absorbed into his flesh, healing the abrasions instantly and leaving him with the smell of pine and irises.

"There you are," she said in a voice thick with Irish lilt. She looked up at him. "Whatever made you decide to do that?"

Dyre took his hand from her. The bandage stuck adhesively to his fingers.

"It looked hungry," he said simply as if it were obvious.

She looked surprised. "You know the Canary Eater?"

She could tell by his robes and accent that he descended from the north, and it was very unlikely he had come across the plant.

"I know of it," Dyre corrected. "Are you the caretaker here?"

She chortled into her gut, the sound coming out like a dove. "Oh no, child. I'm the Herbology professor."

Dyre's eyes widened. "Forgive me," he said, bowing his head. "I did not mean to assume."

"Oh, pish-posh," she waved off. "As covered in filth as I am, it's hardly your fault."

Dyre straightened, deciding she was quite odd. Dyre looked around again. "It this your greenhouse?"

"One of mine," she nodded.

Dyre moved behind her. "You have wittlemort," he said, a smidge of awe in his voice.

"Aye," she said, nodding.

The plant hung alone in its large pot. A single teardrop of crystal liquid balanced on the frond, but Dyre knew that the roots were spread deep and wide, encompassing all of the three square feet in the pot.

"You know your herbs, lad," she said approvingly.

Dyre shook his head. "The Maiden used to read botany texts to me so I could get to sleep."

She chuckled again and Dyre felt as if she was laughing with him instead of against him. "That's hardly a bedtime story."

Dyre smiled, agreeing with her, but he didn't say that that was all that the Maiden could give him. It was her one indulgence, and she could never step from the tower to see the plants she so loved.

"I still remember a lot of it," he said fondly. "She had a fondness for English flora. She was intrigued how the limestone gave home to such deadly poisons."

"She seems interesting, this Maiden."

Dyre looked at her but there was nothing but innocent curiosity on her face. "She is very kind," Dyre said.

He could not help the softening of his voice or the wistful expression on his face. Professor Spout, as was her name, talked with him for a bit longer, making no mention of the bruises on his face. However, she had other plants to attend to and he a castle to explore. They parted ways, promising to speak again because she had a student she thought he might like.

He went the to the Astronomy Tower. The odd gewgaws were foreign to him, but he did recognize the sextants and spyglasses. The telescopes were hunky things that looked uncomfortable sitting at the edge of the tower. The long funnels were top-heavy and sagged over the turret morosely.

Dyre ran his fingers over its metallic surface, wondering what such a creature could make of the heavens. Everything felt a little dead up here, like it was once alive but was now decaying. He didn't know where the thought came from, as everything was polished and neatly tucked into cubbies and corners. It looked used and used well, but without observers, it just seemed… empty, as redundant as that was. Like it was waiting for some type of resurrection.

The Tower at Durmstrang was taller than this one, host to more rooms and more people. It was home to many as opposed to this, which was only a classroom. The wind whipped through, tossing autumn leaves and the tangy tint of an English September. It tasted finely of fire.

The halls were more crowded on his way back down. He was sure no one would recognize him as it was still early and his fellow shipmates had yet to feel comfortable enough to wander. The students were clumped together in varying displays of excited whispers and sleepy drooping.

Dyre laughed silently at them. They would never survive the harsh training of Durmstrang. It was very sheltered here, he concluded. Perhaps England had a different type of strength than Scandinavia, but he couldn't as yet see it.

"Well, if it isn't the little bastard," someone said in an overly chipper voice.

A hand clapped his back, making him stumble. Dyre turned around scowling. He was wrong. Apparently someone besides him wanted to explore the castle. This was bad. It was common knowledge that Karkaroff had ordered him to stay on the ship. He felt someone grab his arms.

Farkoff, the Prince of the Northern Den, was smirking smugly at him, his two lackeys, Lockjaw and Crowley, grinning as they gripped his arms. Dyre knew it would be better not to resist. These people were little more than bullies. They were cowards and, worse, bored. They could hardly do him any real damage. He was hardly afraid of Farkoff, whose purse was bigger his mouth and certainly sharper than his bite.

Karkaroff spoiled kids like this, and Dyre most often felt sorry for them. Boys going to the Academy were going to get whipped and killed because they were pampered in Durmstrang.

Still, their hands on him made his blood boil. Their pride was unearned. Dyre could only think about all the times the first years scrubbed the floors, polished swords, shoes and buckles while this snot sat there watching. And he had the nerve to stand there with his smug grin. He didn't deserve his father's blood.

So while Dyre should have remained still, he struggled instead. The hands gripped tightly, bruising his bruises. His spirit, yet to break after so many beatings and punishments, entertained them. Farkoff was arrogant enough to think he could be the one to break him as well.

"Well, men, I say we take the bastard-child to the headmaster," he said, anticipating a beating.

Thor and Odin, the boy was an imbecile! Karkaroff was sure to be in the Great Hall. This was England, not Iceland. This would only embarrass Karkaroff. Farkoff was going to be lucky to be able to stand after Karkaroff was done with him, regardless of who his father was.

"Foul stillborn!" Dyre shouted, still struggling as Farkoff helped lead them away. "Do you have any idea what you are doing?"

Farkoff backhanded him across the face, like he would do a woman. Dyre simmered, glaring. He was manhandled into the Great Hall, squirming in their hold like a snake. Lockjaw and Crowley had strong grips on him from long years of practice roping boars and chasing unwilling women.

The Hall stilled when they dragged him in, his writhing increasing to a point where Crowley was about to break his wrist. He might still escape. Karkaroff could just say he was misbehaving. He wouldn't have to explain to his students in front of the new faces and colleagues that Dyre was outside of his control.

_Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!_

He was suddenly pushed down before the headmaster. He quickly gained his feet, backing far enough that he was outside Karkaroff's immediate reach but close enough so that Farkoff's cronies wouldn't grab him. He made the mistake, however, of meeting Karkaroff's eyes.

Dear Odin, the man was pissed. He was beyond pissed. He was enraged. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips were hidden in his ghastly beard. The darkness of his gaze was oil-slick and demonic, like a barren wasteland.

Karkaroff might be a coward, but he was an evil bastard with the cane, especially when he felt his huge ego was being threatened. Dyre often walked that line, occasionally tripping over, but it had never been this bad. There had never been this many witnesses to his lack of command with Dyre. Dyre had never made such a spectacle of himself in front of guests. It was one of the ultimate embarrassments.

Dyre didn't even take in the rest of the hall. The teachers' concerned and fearful eyes. Victor's muttered curse or the Slytherin blonde's curious eyes. Not even the smirking grins of Farkoff, Lockjaw, and Crowley behind him.

Karkaroff's gaze smoldered with coming fire, his beard bristling. "Take him to the ship," he said clearly to no one in particular, just the thick raging voice that had to be obeyed.

Farkoff and his lackeys weren't grinning anymore. Perhaps they had finally realized they had made a mistake. Dyre did not wait for Crowley to grab him, violently brushing his hand off and storming passed their surprised faces.

He was going to get punished so badly tonight, and it was their fault. He should have been more careful, more aware of his surroundings. He should have been able to push them off and run. He would have gotten punished but, Freya, it wouldn't have been that bad.

As he stalked passed the Slytherin table, rage rolling off of him in waves, he raised his head to try to meet Victor's stare but was met instead with grey. It was beautiful really, like the colorless pitch of the Crystal Lake, drab clouds bringing freezing, dangerous rain. Ash on snow.

But as soon as he saw it, he looked away. He knew well what the scar on his face did, and it was almost too easily to dismiss the quiet but powerful smolder in those cool eyes. He left the Hall, Farkoff, Lockjaw, and Crowley following him, their plans ruined and none of them happy about it.

The walk to the boats was silent, brisk, and filled with cruel anticipation of the cane breaking over their shoulders.


	3. At the Gate to Valhalla

_Shall I believe _

_That insubstantial death is amorous,_

_And that the lean abhorred monster keeps_

_Thee here in dark to be his paramour?_

~ "Romeo and Juliet" by William Shakespeare

Draco Malfoy was in quiet conversation with Victor Krum when breakfast gained a most enticing distraction. He had been sending gloating smirks to his father and self-claimed uncles when three boys walked in holding a sniping viper between them.

The boy was mostly invisible in his snarls and struggles, twisting in ways Draco didn't think possible for humans. The movements were wild and desperate, and Draco could only make out a thick mop of ink-black hair as they dragged him to the table.

He wasn't the only one watching. His father was observing the exchange curiously, but James and Lily were horrified, the latter twisting her napkin into a gnarled mess. Sirius and Lupin both looked angry, glaring at the older boys restraining the boy. Victor cursed beside him, burying his head in his hand.

The older students pushed the boy forward roughly with a few smugly clipped words. He was quick to gain his feet, rising fluidly and gracefully. It was the first time Draco could see him, and he gasped.

It was like looking through a time scryer at James Potter, but there was an angry dignity that James could never quite perfect. He was too playful and wily. This was pride, the true pride of nobility and brutality. He met his headmaster's furious gaze with a jut of his chin, daring him even as he backed away a safe distance from the man's long arms.

He was beautiful in his mismatched, undyed robes, untidy hair, and broken face. His profile was bruised and swollen, but he seemed more regal for it, a survivor instead of a victim.

It was interesting to watch the two of them. Hatred. Loathing. Anger and pride. It battled back and forth but the boy didn't even seem to care that he was winning. That no matter how tall Karkaroff drew himself or how harsh his gaze, he could not match the strength of the boy before him. The boy's stance was undaunted, solid and fierce as if ready for battle.

"Take him to the ship," Karkaroff ordered, spite and fury dripping from his heavy voice.

One of the older students reached forward, not so cocky anymore, but the boy shrugged him off as he would an insect. He turned, and Draco gasped again. The left side of his face was disfigured with a jagged lightening bolt scar. It stretched over his eye, which was milky and blind, and trailed over his cheek, ending at his jaw line as it curved towards his ear like a demented sickle.

The way he walked was dark, reminding Draco of Severus, who was staring at the boy in astonishment, his mouth hanging open undignified.

"By Thor," Victor muttered beside him in exasperation, as if this was a common occurrence.

Draco was about to turn to address him when the boy turned to them. Draco's breath was caught in that rich amber-green gaze. It was as dark as pine and deep as a stone well. The eye sparked interestedly, seeing something he liked, but just as soon as it came, it was washed away.

He turned back, continuing his rigid pace and sweeping out of the hall, the three older lords trailing like dogs. The hall remained silent after they left. Everyone turned to Karkaroff, who angered even further at their attention.

"Pardon me," he said in a heavy tone to Lucius beside him. "I must see to something."

He left, and Draco watched James restrain his wife, who moved to accost him. He shook his head at Sirius and Lupin, who also had risen as well.

_What the hell is going on?_ Draco thought and could see his father and Severus thinking it too.

"Who was that?" he asked Victor instead.

He watched as the people at the head table moved to eavesdrop, and Draco allowed it for the sake of information on this intriguing, mysterious boy.

"That was Dyre," Victor said, his voice heavier than Karkaroff's with his accent. "He is the headmaster's servant."

"Servant?" Draco repeated incredulously. That was no servant.

Victor nodded, understanding his disbelief. "He was raised by the Maiden, but he has lived at Durmstrang his whole life."

"Who is the Maiden?" Draco questioned curiously.

Victor's lips thinned as if it was something he did not wish to speak of. "It is forbidden to speak of her in such informal terms. It is rumored that she raised Harry when he was a baby."

Draco's eyes suddenly sparked. "I thought you said his name is Dyre."

"Yes," Victor said. "Dyre Harald Durmstrang. He allows very few to call him Harry."

"May I ask why?"

"It is a topic of discontent. Harald is a warrior's name. It is improper to call him thus."

Draco furrowed his brow. "I do not understand."

"Harry is not a warrior. It is forbidden for servants to learn craft or carry weapons. You see those daggers," he said, pointing to a few of his fellow students.

Their daggers hung from their belts as they ate. Draco had never seen them without it. Even now, Victor was wearing his. Draco nodded.

"Those are signs of a competent fighter. It means that we have passed Holmgang. It is a great honor."

Draco didn't say anything, thinking.

"Only the students who have passed Holmgang can have a warrior's name," Victor added.

"But you call him Harry," Draco said.

"Aye," Victor agreed. "Harry has spilt enough blood that I consider him a warrior."

The statement was hallowing. Draco paused, letting a shiver pass through him.

"Why was Karkaroff so angry at him?" Draco asked curiously.

Victor growled. "Because the lad does not know when to lie low. This is the trouble of forcing a soldier to act a maid. I've told Igor for years to give him his freedom. No good can come of leashing a wolf. Mark my words. You can only hold it so long before it bites you."

This was quite a long statement for the Bulgarian, and Draco was surprised by the deep feelings the quidditch player felt for the… 'servant.'

"You seem like you care for him," Draco said softly and admiringly.

Surprisingly, Victor flinched. "You should not say such things, Draco Malfoy," he said quietly.

Draco was shocked. "Why not?"

"Harry is cursed," he said sadly but firmly. "He doesn't speak of it often. He warned me of it when I first began to approach him."

"Cursed with what?" Draco said, meeting his whisper.

Victor shook his head. "He won't say. He says only that the Maiden told him to beware of getting close to people. It isn't so difficult as a servant in a school of lords and ladies, but he felt the need to warn me so it is certain he believes it."

Draco shook his head. "I know I asked, but this seems very personal. Why are you telling me this?"

Victor shrugged but when his eyes fell on him, they were piercing and knowing. "I am not blind."

To this, he turned, meeting James' eager gaze head on. He floundered, surprised to be caught out so suddenly, but he had been doing nothing to hide his eavesdropping. Neither had Lily and Sirius, though Severus, Lupin, and Lucius had more dignity.

"This is my warning, that he asked me to give should anyone become interested in him," he said in his stumbling accent.

Finished, he rose to leave, but Draco grabbed his sleeve. "Wait. What is going to happen to him?" he asked speaking of Karkaroff.

Victor looked unwilling to say, and the adults leaned closer.

"Why do you wish to know, lordling?" Victor asked instead.

Draco released him. "I don't believe the bruises on his face were old enough to have been caused in his tussle with those boys," he said.

"That did not answer my question, Malfoy," Victor said harshly.

He was smarter than he looked, Draco thought. Draco lowered his gaze.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

Victor removed himself from the bench. "Perhaps when you do, I will tell you. Perhaps Harry will tell you himself."

He walked down the table, his clubfoot giving him a prominent limb. Still, Draco knew such a man was not to be trifled with unwisely. The dagger at his belt was proof enough. It must have taken a lot to gain entrance to Durmstrang, the school that shunned the deformed and infirm. His fame helped, but he could not have been flying when he was seven, the age when the school took in children.

Draco thought that it was likely that Victor Krum became the Durmstrang champion. He himself was a year too young, but he didn't think he would enter anyway. His father was pruning him to take over the Malfoy lordship. He didn't think risking his life in a measly contest would win his father's regard.

None of the Slytherins would enter. Well, none of the worthy ones. They were too intelligent to risk their lives in a game. The others would be too blinded by glory to think straight. Draco rather thought those deserved whatever misfortune they brought upon themselves.

There were a few Gryffindors he considered. They had a good chance. Even fewer Hufflepuffs and barely any Ravenclaws. They cherished knowledge over brawn. He wondered for a second what it would have been like to see Harry fight. He imagined it would be spectacular.

But Harry wasn't old enough. Apparently he wasn't even a student. It enraged him. He could see curses flying so majestically from his outstretched arm. It was crime to keep him from such beauty. It was crueler still to deny him a dagger from what Victor said.

Draco knew a fighter when he saw one. He did not doubt that Harry knew how to wield a sword, despite propriety and law. He was a survivor.

_He's a survivor_, Draco founded himself more hoping that believing. He didn't like the look in Victor's eyes or his refusal to say precisely what Karkaroff was going to do to him. He looked to his father, but as he knew he would, Lucius shook his head. He could not interfere without proper cause, not unfounded concern, and they were not allowed on the ship without invitation.

Draco wished Dumbledore were here. He would never have let Karkaroff leave, not when he was so mad. There would have been something. However, the headmaster was currently in a meeting with Bagman and Crouch. He couldn't be everywhere at once, Draco knew, and with the Tournament, there were so many things to do.

Draco picked at his food, feeling like he was twelve again. Completely in the dark and helpless. He hadn't played with his food since he was a child, but he could not for the life of him eat it anymore. His mind drifted to the quiet conversation at the end table, where Professor Sprout had just joined Professor Snape.

Lily and James were quiet. Lupin was always quiet, but even Sirius, who hardly ever shut up, was silent. As his father rarely spoke to any of the teachers if he could help it, the only one speaking was Sprout.

"I ran into the most wonderful boy this morning," she was saying happily. "Sad," she amended. "But wonderful."

"I suppose you are going to tell me all about it," Severus said snidely.

Popoma, well acquainted with his ire, ignored him. "He knew his English flora. I can tell you that. I was thinking of introducing him to young Neville."

"Yes, herd the brats to the greenhouse. Keep your little prodigy away from my lab."

She frowned slightly. "No need to be nasty, Severus," she admonished. "Neville's a bright boy and I'm sure this Dyre will be as well."

Suddenly, she had Snape's undivided attention. Lily, James, and Sirius perked, and Lucius was suddenly very interested in his tea. Lupin continued eating, but Draco noticed that his shoulders were tense. Draco scooted closer to the table.

"Dyre, you say," Severus said.

"Yes," she said cheerfully, almost bouncing in her seat. "Bright boy. Gave some of his blood to my little Canary Eater. So kind of him."

Severus sneered at her. "That ruddy plant had best not be attacking people."

Her lips thinned. There was one thing you didn't do with Popoma and that was insult her plants.

"It would never do such a thing," she protested. "I'd like to see you harvest your own McKenzie vines the next time you want your dang dream serum."

"Alright, alright," Severus placated her. "You'd think I killed the damn thing."

"Don't you tempt me, Severus Snape," she said, waving her fork at him. "You can't guard your goblet all the time."

Severus was properly quelled and tactfully retreated. Despite Draco's somber mood, he chuckled to see his godfather put down so thoroughly.

"You were talking about your new pet student," Severus said, pushing the conversation back on topic.

Popoma glared at him but returned to her breakfast. "It's a Durmstrang lad," she said. "Gave the creature blood all on his own. I've never seen a child so young willingly give blood to a plant." She shrugged. "But he said it was hungry. I healed him up just fine."

"Did he say anything else?" Severus asked.

Popoma eyed him. "Is there any reason you are so suddenly interested in that boy?"

"I find him curious," Severus said simply.

She hummed. "He said he knew about English plants from the Maiden. He said she used to read them to him to get him to sleep."

"That's rather odd," Severus commented.

Popoma nodded. "I got the feeling the lady was his mother or someone close to it. He seems to be a hard boy," she noted. "But there was a softness in his face when he spoke of her, very protective."

"The Maiden is an old relic," Severus said in a scholarly voice that he always reserved for old myths and dying stories. "Most scholars and texts disprove her existence. It is said that she resides in the Western tower and guards the gate to Valhalla."

"Valhalla is the Norseman's interpretation of heaven, is it not?" Popoma asked, though the entire table was now listening in. Again.

Severus nodded. "It is where the warriors who die in battle go. In order to gain entrance to Valhalla, a human must have what is considered a 'glorious death.' Shield maidens shepherd the fallen soldiers. However, Odin gave the task of guarding the gate to a mortal woman that could supposedly see the future.

"She was hidden in a Tower that reached the sky and weaved death with the Norns. Men were forbidden to speak with her. She took maidens with seer abilities to the Tower and trained them to succeed her. But it is only a myth," he said, shaking his head. "She was mentioned only in one account of a bard that glimpsed her from one of the lower windows. It is more likely that he was merely besotted and made the whole thing up to indulge some demented fantasy."

"Severus, you are a disgrace to romance," Popoma said, smacking his arm.

He sneered at her. "It is just a pointless story told to amuse toddlers who can not get to sleep."

"It's hardly pointless," Popoma said indignantly. "That was a people's culture at one time."

"A culture that has died out, replaced by reason and logic."

"You are never going to get a wife," she told him, sipping her tea.

Severus sputtered. Lucius sniggered and turned it into a convincible cough. Severus glared at him.

o.O.o

Harry wasn't seen again for two weeks. Lily saw Karkaroff daily, and it was all she could do not to rip his head off. However, she was wary of getting Harry into any more trouble. Therefore, she did the only thing she could do. Pester him for the inheritance potion.

It was a simple potion, but it would take one week to brew then another week to simmer after Harry's willing blood was given. Severus was hesitant to start it when he wasn't sure when Harry's blood would be available. It had to start on the full moon and end on the new. The timing was the only part of it that was tricky. As it were, they required Harry's presence so they could witness that it had been given willingly. It was the only hold Lily had, and she had a tight grip on the damn thing.

Karkaroff had taken to avoiding her and by association James. Lily was suffering in her classes, falling silent in the middle lectures and snapping at minor offenses. The students steered clear of her, muttering about curses and monthly cycles before Lily burned their rumps with her wand.

Sirius and Lupin could no longer abandon their positions at the Ministry and left very reluctantly. They managed to coerce James and Lily into promising several long missives in their absence, but they looked over their shoulders several times before arriving to the apparation point. Even there, they dallied as if hoping Harry would come running out of the building to see them off.

James was not faring much better than his wife. He was jittery and serving very poorly as Lucius' guard. Lucius excused his foul mood, understanding his position well. If Draco ever went missing, he'd be a rotten mess too.

They were in a meeting with the headmaster about sneaking on the Durmstrang ship when Karkaroff bowled through the door. The heavy wood cracked against the stone, making them jump. Karkaroff's face was a mess of tangled beard and angry eyes, and he almost hit his head on the doorframe.

Dumbledore opened his mouth, no doubt to ask the reason for his intrusion, when the man shoved forward the figure in his right hand. He had a hard grip on the boy's elbow, and Harry was too short to do anything other than dangle in the aggressive hold.

"You want his blood. Take it. Take it all! Bleed the whelp dry!" he shouted, catapulting the boy forward.

Lily was quick to grab him before he could hit the floor, but Harry was quickly out of her arms.

"We are not done, Headmaster!" Harry snarled.

"You…" he fumed, seeming to be incapable of further language. "You watch yourself or I'll drown you in the damn lake!" he growled, looking like he would really do it.

Harry glared at him. "Try it!" the boy dared him, his green eye shining like an exploding star. "Death be upon you if you try it, Igor Karkaroff!"

Karkaroff stalked forward, and the adults tensed, prepared to hold him back if he attacked the boy.

"You are mine, slave!" he hissed. "I will cut open your gut and feed you still screaming to the birds!"

Harry stared back boldly. "Try. It," he hissed.

They held their breaths. Karkaroff seemed ready to kill him, and Harry just stood there with a defiance that was inhuman. Lucius, Lily, James, Severus, and Dumbledore were stunned. They were trained competent wizards, but the hatred between the two seemed unstoppable. They were so close that if Igor decided to snap Harry's neck, they would be too late to stop it.

Finally, Igor hissed. "She can't protect you forever, boy."

They prayed that Harry would remain silent, and it seemed as if the boy had finally gained some common sense. His gaze was unwavering, but he let Karkaroff have the last words. He swept out of the still open door, leaving silence in his wake. The door to the foyer slammed behind him, and Harry let out a slew of Danish and Norwegian curse words, kicking a chair.

They watched him fume quietly until he finally seemed to gain control of himself. He stood alone in the middle of the room, his shoulders shaking and his fists clenched. No one else seemed able to move.

Dumbledore stood. He moved from behind the desk, and Harry's gaze turned warily to him. Dumbledore had a friendly smile on as he approached him, much like someone would approach a wild animal.

"Hello again, Dyre," Dumbledore greeted soothingly. "I do not believe I ever properly introduced myself."

Dyre/Harry nodded, his angry gaze still fixed on the door. "You are Banebringer's Defeat."

Dumbledore blinked. "I have not been called that in a long time," he said in a subdued tone. "I am Albus Dumbledore."

Harry nodded but said nothing else.

"I am surprised that one so young would recall such a thing," Dumbledore added, smiling as he tried to coax the boy into conversation.

"Durmstrang does not forget her children. Though she may forsake them." He turned his mismatched gaze on him.

Dumbledore was suddenly held by two completely different stares. One was bright and green, full of mistrust, anger, and hot power. The other was silent. Its blue-white glaze was cool and dull with blindness, but Albus couldn't help but think that Dyre could somehow see through that eye. See something different than the rest of them.

"I am slightly surprised you have not conquered the world, Master Dumbledore," he said in that swirling lilt, like he was pulling something dark from the bottom of a deep cavern.

"I am hardly wise enough to conquer the world," Dumbledore said, as if the idea amused him. "Or young enough."

Dyre tilted his head as if he could see through Dumbledore's words to the pain beneath. Dumbledore allowed him to gaze through his soul, not really knowing what the boy would find.

"Perhaps," he said slowly. "You are wise enough not to."

Dumbledore beamed at him. "Well put, my boy!"

Dyre gave him a queer look, not really sure what to do with this type of person. Dumbledore backed away a little to introduce the rest of their audience.

"As you probably know, this lovely lady is Lily Potter," he said indicating the redhead and only female of the group. "She is our Defense professor."

Dyre fully inclined his head, giving her a deep, respectful bow. Lily looked startled and gave a blushing smile.

"The man to her left is her husband, James Potter," Dumbledore continued. "He does field work for the Ministry but mostly serves as guard for Lucius Malfoy."

"Malfoy," he repeated, his head rising.

He met the stare of the blonde aristocrat. Lucius tilted his head inquiringly, curious that his name sparked a reaction. Harry held his stare for a second, giving away nothing, before dropping his gaze.

"Do you know me?" Lucius asked curiously.

Harry shook his head. "Lord Krum spoke of your son."

His formality was cheapened a little by the disrespect he showed towards his headmaster, not that it seemed unfounded.

"I hope he had good things to say," Lucius said, smiling a little as he always did when he thought of his wayward son.

Harry did not respond but to give a courteous nod.

"And the brooding gentleman on his left is Severus Snape, our Potion professor."

Snape sneered at the old man, which Dumbledore responded to with a happy twinkle. Dyre was not staring at his face though but his arm. Snape bristled. Lucius moved a little closer to him, lending him silent support, but Harry said nothing. He declined his head again, but his eyes did not leave him.

It was interesting that the stare was not hostile but curious.

It was silent again. Lily and James looked between themselves nervously, not sure how to continue. Harry sighed and began rolling up his sleeve.

"You wish for my blood, do you not?"

"Yes," Severus answered since he was the one performing the removal.

As Severus walked towards him, Harry extended his arm, palm up. Severus slipped out his wand. Harry did not flinch when Severus cut softly through his flesh, raising a vial to catch the drops. When he finished, he closed up the wound and wiped away the excess blood. Harry rolled back down his sleeve.

"What will you do if I am not he?" Harry asked suddenly, his eyes on his working hands.

"You are," James said firmly, no doubt in his mind as he gazed at the child that was once his little boy.

"Alright then, what if I am?"

They paused, and Harry looked up. "What if I am your son? My position does not change."

"We will free you," James said.

Harry stared at him, his eyes turning cold. "So you care as long as I am of your blood?"

James flinched stepping back. "That's not what I meant."

"That's what you said."

When James said nothing else, Harry looked behind him at the other people in the room. He looked down at the floor again.

"Hope that you are wrong, Master Potter. Karkaroff will not release me."

"I am a very rich man, Harry," Lucius said for James' sake. "He will part with you for a price."

"My name is Dyre," Harry said coldly. "And he will not. I have vowed to kill him when I am free," he said bluntly.

"He seems arrogant enough to believe he is invincible," Lucius said in a droll tone, completely disregarding his death threat. "What makes you think he will not brush it aside?"

Dyre frowned, debating with himself how much he wished to reveal. "I am… a bargaining chip."

"Is this part of your curse?" Lily asked, unable to hold her tongue.

Harry was silent for a second. "I see Lord Krum had spoken to you," he said, his face carefully blank.

"Not so much," Lily admitted uncomfortably.

"Yes, lady, it is part of my curse," Harry said. "I will bring him good fortune for as long as he holds my collar. When I am released, he will die by my hand, as is written. Those who use me are forbidden from heaven and hell. There shall be no rest for him, and it scares him."

Severus scoffed. "You speak of such things as if they are real."

"Magic is old, Professor. It is rooted in gods, folklore, and myth. The old prophecies still ring true."

"Do you fancy yourself a trapped god, Dyre?" Snape said contemptuously, ignoring the several glares thrown at him.

But Dyre smiled at him like they had some private joke. "Nothing so grand. I am just a tool for misfortune. Think of me as an albatross."

"An albatross?" James repeated confused.

"Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner," Severus said.

Harry's eye sparkled. "Very good, professor."

"So are you are saying you bring good luck unless you're killed," Severus said, ignoring his taunt.

"Only to the one I hate," Harry said.

"Why are you telling us this?" Lucius asked suspiciously.

"Because if I am your son, you should know what you are getting into before you decide to try to love me."

"We already love you, Harry," Lily said gently.

Harry flinched as if struck. "Do not say such things. You will bring calamity to yourself."

She snorted. "I have already welcomed calamity to me, Harry. I don't care."

"I wished you wouldn't call me that," he said with slight pain in his eyes. "It's heresy."

"I didn't think a boy like you would worry about heresy," Severus said coldly.

"I honor the old ways," he said harshly, his face grim. "Master Karkaroff tries to exist above the law, and I cannot abide by that."

"You have a god-complex," Snape mumbled, moving away from Lily who looked ready to throttle him. Not that James was much better.

"Hardly," Harry responded wryly. "It's hard to elevate yourself to god-like status when you're scrubbing latrines."

"Har – Dyre," James stumbled. "Do you believe you are our son?"

The room waited, eager for his response.

"It is not… impossible," Harry responded uneasily, trying to keep his yearning to be a part of this family apart from the facts. "It fits," he said more to himself than to him.

"What do you mean?" Lily asked.

To them, it seemed extremely fantastic and far-fetched. How had their son survived the attack and how had he gotten all the way to Iceland? Though they believed it, they had to admit that it didn't fit at all.

Harry was silent for a long time, his cold, scarred face calculating. "This Harry Potter," he said carefully. "When he was born, Voldemort gained power."

"Don't speak that name!" Snape yelled.

Harry stared at him before sighing. "Pardon. The Dark Lord gained power when this boy was born. When he killed him, he died as well, correct? Does that sound at all familiar?"

They exchanged dubious glances. "But you didn't die," James said, basking for a second in the euphoria of being able to say those words.

"Of course he died," Harry said. "I just came back."

"What the hell are you on about now?" Snape snapped, unable to hold him temper against these wild arguments anymore.

Harry looked at the door, seeming to judge his time. He moved towards Dumbledore's desk. Looking to the man, who had been quiet, for permission, he slipped out an old parchment and a quill. He sketched out a rough map. There were nine circles that he named in runic symbols.

"These are the nine worlds. Myth speculates that each is home to various numbers of creatures, some of which is true. The dark elves rule in Svartalfaheim, the light elves rule in Alfheimr, and Midgard is the world of humans. Two worlds were split for the gods, one world for ice, one world for fire, one world for the Jötnar, and one world for the dead. Obviously after the great flood, the worlds were merged."

He folded the sheet.

"The light elves kept to themselves. Many died, but they were able to preserve part of their world for a small number to survive. Of the dark elves, goblins and dwarves came to this world. Most of them died, but a few survived enough to continue their species, though most of their culture was forgotten. Most of the gods perished. Asgard was destroyed, and Vanaheimr, the other world of the gods, was cut off and lost. Even the Jötnar came to this world, the only one large enough to survive destruction."

He finished folding the sheet, spreading it out again. They crowded over Dumbledore's desk, trying not to jostle him. A world lied right under the one he labeled Midgard.

James pointed to it. "Which world is that?"

"Hel, the world of the dead. The worlds drifted closer. It is much easier now to access the underworld or call upon the dead. However, once you cross over, you do not come back."

"But you said you did," Lily said, staring at him.

Harry's face was sad as he gazed over his overlapping worlds. "I know one who intersects the gates to Valhalla. She denied me entrance and pulled me back."

"The Maiden," Snape said, linking the pieces even though he did not believe them.

Harry looked a little startled but nodded. "Yes, it is one of her powers, to call back those awaiting entrance to Valhalla. However, a great toll must be paid. Both she and the person she calls back must pay a price."

He brushed the long scar on the right side of his face.

"Why did she do it?" Lily asked. "There must be millions of children that cross the gate to Valhalla."

"Millions of children cross the gate to Hel, but not the gate to Valhalla. To enter Valhalla, you must be killed in battle."

"You were one." Lily's voice rose in distress. "It was hardly a battle," she said derisively, thinking of the spill of Peter's blood running down the windows.

Harry shook his head. "I can not answer your question. I do not remember. I never thought I used to be Harry Potter. I knew only that I had died once before."

"This is preposterous," Snape said, backing away from the map. "People can not return from the dead."

"Everyone has the ability to return," Harry said. "But it is against their nature. Hel is not just a place. It is a state of being. A few people can enter Hel without being dead just like a few of the deceased can exist in this world. To them it is like stepping from one room into the next without moving. They occupy the same space but everything is perceived differently."

"And do you see Hel?" Snape challenged, glaring at him.

Harry stared at him with his mismatched gaze. "You do not wish to know what I see." His voice was deadly, carrying some creature none of them could comprehend.

James believed him. Lily was scared, unable and unwilling to think that her boy could be so unfairly damned. Lucius was as skeptical as Snape, but he had been raised in a Dark family. He knew ritual and old power when he saw it, and Harry was soaked in it.

Dumbledore kept his own counsel.

"I'm not saying this to try to get you to believe that I'm some all-powerful nether worldly being. What little power I have does not belong to me, and it is not meant to be used against people like you."

"Just people like Karkaroff," Severus interjected cynically.

"The only person I'm allowed to hate is the one who binds me. He is the only one I am free to kill and only after I am released."

"Dyre," Dumbledore said after his long silence. "What you speak of is demonic ritual. I do not believe you are a demon."

"There are many names for what I am. Why can't demon be one of them?"

"First you're a god. Now you're a demon," Severus sneered. "I'm surprised you don't get yourself confused."

Harry glared at him. "I am a child of man, but I am also Other. If you wish to make me your son, then I suggest you accept it and move on. I am telling you that nothing good can come of consorting with me. Save yourself the trouble and just forget you ever saw me."

"How can you say that?" Lily asked in a low whisper, her grassy eyes shiny with tears. "We've prayed for this for so long. This has been our deepest hope. How can you ask us to give you up?"

"Lady, I do not mean to make you cry," he said gently, showing softness they had not seen. "But I am not the son you want. I cannot play with you or sing with you. I cannot make you happy."

"You don't know that," Lily argued determinedly, her nose turning stuffy. "You have no idea how little it would take. Even seeing you… It means so much just to know you are alive." She rubbed her face as James put a comforting hand on her back. "I know I cannot understand you, but you cannot understand this. You can't understand how we grieved, how awful it felt to have you torn from us.

"We were right there," she continued. "We could see your shadows through the window. We gave everything we could, and I still didn't save you. You have no idea how painful it is to see your baby die while you can only stand there."

"I'm sorry," he said, staring shamefully at the floor. "I do not pretend to understand your pain. I only wish not to cause you more. Surely you must have let me go. To you I've been dead fifteen years."

"Never," Lily said and James echoed her. "Such pain does not heal. It is only endured."

"I am truly sorry, my lady," he said, his voice thick with honesty but his face hidden.

"Dyre," Lucius said suddenly.

The boy did not acknowledge him, saying nothing.

"Dyre," he called again. "You're bleeding."

The boy looked up at this, as did everyone else in the room. Dyre reached back to feel his back. The tension in his shoulders must have torn the new flesh. He cursed softly as his fingers came away wet.

Lily, forgetting her anguish, rushed forward. Her hands ghosted over his back. "You should get this looked at."

Dyre moved away from her. "I'm fine."

"Did Igor do that to you?" Dumbledore asked, his voice hard and his gaze piercing.

Dyre smiled, his hand holding the wound on his shoulder tight. "I am sure that a servant can not say what his master does," he said wryly, confirming their suspicions. They stared at him in horror.

The grey of his uniform was turning a dull cottony red. Splotches appeared sporadically, overlapping. Dyre could feel the fabric fusing to the broken flesh and open sores, ripping up scabs.

"I must go," he announced, turning to the door and giving them the full angle of the deep saturation spreading over his tunic.

"Wait," Lily called. "We have a Mediwitch. Let her look at you," she pleaded.

Dyre turned to her at the edge of the door, only half his body still inside the room. "I would not wish for you to worry. I can mend myself just fine," he promised and slipped out of the room.

"I am going to kill that damn man," James vowed.

"I think Dyre would prefer to do it," Lucius said, his silver eyes cold and harsh with retribution.

Dumbledore stood. Without a word, he left his office. The frazzle of magic trailed him. His stony face was unyielding and enraged. They let him leave silently, knowing Karkaroff should never have let the old wizard see the boy's blood. A thoughtful silence descended, broken only by the ticking of Dumbledore's gewgaws.

Their eyes fell one by one to the glass vial. Red liquid sloshed languidly in between Severus' hand. It felt like a secret was inside that vial, something coiling quietly in the underbrush deep in slumber.

There was eleven days until the full moon, plenty of time to prepare the ingredients. They knew what it would read, but it would do little more than give Karkaroff more leverage over them and Harry.

Knowledge swirled in the glass, but they were still trapped.


	4. Dreams of a Bastard Son

_By pining, we are already there; we have already cast our hope, like an anchor, on that coast. I sing of somewhere else, not here; for I sing with my heart, not my flesh._

~ The Last Life by Claire Messud

Surprisingly, Dyre was present for the next breakfast. He stood mutely behind Karkaroff's chair, gazing stonily at the Hall. Almost everyone ignored him, everyone, that is, except those in on the secret and Draco Malfoy.

Dyre's gaze settled on no one. It wasn't even moving at all. Draco stared at him. How could someone stand so still? The bruises from the weeks before had healed. He was straight and strong and unyielding. It didn't look like anything that Karkaroff did had affected him. Except for that grim glare. He didn't exactly look happy.

"If you don't stop staring at him, I'm going to pluck your eyes out," Victor growled beside him.

Draco started and turned to him. The Bulgarian had a murderous expression on his face, and Draco had to admit that with his broken nose and heavy brow, he looked very menacing. The boy looked down at his plate and began eating again as if he hadn't threatened him.

"Why does he look like that?" Draco asked, turning to the boy again before Victor's growl stopped him.

"Your questions are bothersome," Krum growled, eating his eggs.

Draco bristled. "Excuse me for being concerned," he snapped.

Victor's eyes swiveled to him angrily. "For a Slytherin, you are rather thick," the broad seeker said. When Draco still did not understand, he elaborated in a low tone. "I told you not to take an interest in him. Interest in him is dangerous."

"I'm not afraid of some silly curse," Draco sneered.

Victor gave him a hard look like he was stupid. "Do not ask questions about him," Victor ordered. "Questions about him lead back to Karkaroff. You would do well not to cause more trouble for the lad."

Draco's eyes widened in recognition. "Is he being punished?"

Victor speared his sausage. "Harry has brought shame to his master by displaying his disobedience. Karkaroff is a proud man. He allows disobediences but not shame, never shame."

"How would my interest be shameful?" Draco asked discontentedly.

"Harry is supposed to be invisible."

Draco found that to be very dubious. His eyes were so drawn to the boy that he could not imagine not noticing him in a room.

Most of the teachers were glaring at Karkaroff, but the dark headmaster seemed a little smug about the attention. He lifted his finger, calling Dyre to him. The boy's eyes narrowed, but he obeyed, bending to hear what Karkaroff had to say from his seat. As the Headmaster spoke into his ear, his mouth drew a straight line and his shoulders tightened.

He did not speak, nodding. He gave a small – very small – bow and left the hall. Karkaroff smirked and drank from his goblet, impervious to the deadly glares sent his way. Even Severus was sending him a particularly venomous death glare, and he usually couldn't give a shit about other people.

Draco left the table. Victor gave him a heated stare but said nothing, sipping from his cup. Dyre was only a few turns down, and it did not take long for Draco to catch up with him.

"Dyre!" he called.

The boy paused and turned. His angry gaze softened into confusion at seeing Draco. The blonde stopped when he caught up to him.

"Um, hey," he said, suddenly inexplicably nervous.

Dyre stared at him as if he had lost his head.

"Um, I'm Draco," he said, extending his hand.

Dyre stared at it silently. He did not take it, instead bowing. When he rose, a question was in his gaze.

"Can you not speak?" Draco asked worriedly.

Dyre didn't respond, staring at him expectantly. Draco backed away uneasily. "I don't have anything to tell you. I just wanted to meet you."

His eyes asked why.

Draco shrugged. "I'm not really sure. Victor told me to leave you alone, basically," he amended since those exact words had never come out of the boy's mouth.

Dyre looked uneasy. Draco winced uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry. You probably have other things to do. I just… I didn't really think this out," he admitted nervously.

Why the hell was he so nervous anyway?

Dyre face softened a bit. He reached down and lifted Draco's hand. He kissed the back of it, leaving the blonde rather dumbstruck. Dyre smiled at him. It had to be one of the most beautiful things Draco had ever seen. He saw Dyre's gratitude in it.

Dyre's fingers lingered over his wrist before dropping his hand. He left him standing in the hall. It took a moment for Draco to realize he was alone. He wandered mutely back to the Great Hall, vaguely recalling that he had not finished his breakfast. He plopped back down on the seat, oblivious to Victor's and his father's bewildered stares. He clutched his hand to his chest.

"What did he do to you?" Victor asked.

"I'm not sure," Draco said, his voice breathless. He smiled suddenly. "But I think I liked it."

o.O.o

Dyre really shouldn't have done that. He was a Lord's son and a beautiful one at that, but the indecision on his face had just captured him. He wished he could have spoken, but Karkaroff's spell had yet to be removed.

In Iceland, what he had done would be considered very insulting. He had treated him like a woman, but here apparently it wasn't so bad. It was just an impulse. Dyre was hardly a handsome man, not with his scar. Not to mention he was a slave. Draco Malfoy was probably washing his hand of the filth of his lips, but he had really admired the dreamy quality of his face as he walked away.

He sighed. He spent too much time with Yrsa.

o.O.o

Dyre did not get a chance to speak with the Potters or anyone really for nearly a month. He was so busy with the new chores Karkaroff had stacked on him, like scraping the barnacles off the hull and performing as target practice for the classes.

The bruises on his shoulders had not healed nor had the lacerations from his one-sided brawl with Farkoff, who had not been happy with his own milder punishment. It was a good thing Dyre was adept at wandless healing or he'd be an undistinguishable smear by now. The last stinging hex had yet to dissolve and the copper tang in his mouth seemed a permanent taste on his tongue.

He tossed the entrails from the galley bucket into the lake, letting the kraken consume the scraps. Dyre allowed himself a moment, hanging over the edge of the ship. He watched the tentacles surface and pull half-eaten limbs and hardened bread loaves into the deep. He wondered what was down there in the green. The Crystal Lake played host to a variety of demons but they mostly kept to themselves. Old creatures had long ago bored of playing with humans, though they would never hesitate to drown one or two of them for old time's sake.

This lake did not seem quite as solid. Life teemed beneath the surface. Though Dyre could not see it, he could feel it. The beating of a thousand hearts rippled the surface. To host a kraken, it would have to be very deep as well. How many leagues traveled beneath his feet, he wondered.

Dyre straightened. He returned the buckets to the galley before making the trek to Karkaroff's cabin to organize his papers. The man was useless. Dyre could never figure out how he had become headmaster, though he suspected some foul treachery in the death of his predecessor. That was not uncommon. Dyre just wished it hadn't been Karkaroff who profited from it.

Dyre unearthed a pair of reading glasses from Karkaroff's desk. No one had ever seen him in glasses, and he never wore them outside Karkaroff's office. He would prefer to see the muddied shapes of his peers than admit to his weak eyesight. Being half-blind was not so bad by Durmstrang's standards. Over half the teaching staff had some form of malady or disfigurement. However, wearing spectacles ruined the disposition of his ghastly scar. It made him look weak.

Dyre was forced to wear them when doing books, but he was going to be damned if he let these foul brigands find another crux to taunt him with. It was bad enough he was fatherless and a servant.

Well, he might not be fatherless, he thought as James Potter's face flashed before him. He paused from reviewing budget requests.

Harry Potter.

He set the sheet down. With the glasses, he could make everything in the room out clearly. He could read the spines of the books, their gold print and binding. He could see the grain of oak in the shelves, the brass of the doorknob, and the strong burnished red of the curtains and upholstery. He could make out the buttons in the chair before him and the gleam of the leather he had just polished.

He dreamed once that he could own a room like this, that the papers on the desk would be addressed to him and not that fool Igor. He had once dreamed that the books on the shelves would be his, and they would be old and worn from being repetitively leafed through. He dreamed once of sitting in his father's office and how it would one day belong to him. He would have retainers, business errands, and dinner parties to escape from.

He thought maybe it would be a small company, nothing intent upon ruling the world but a meager merchant trade or a harvesting field. He imagined that there would be a hand on his shoulder guiding him through the steps, a stern but proud voice lending advice. The face was always blank, but he sometimes placed a bushy mustache on his intangible father.

James didn't have a mustache, but he had that pride in his eyes. The man knew, knew somehow that Dyre was this Harry Potter.

Harry James Potter.

His father's name. His father had given him his name. Echoes of bastard followed him, and he suddenly wanted to shout.

"But I'm not! He's right there! See him! Look!"

It was silly. Dyre still had his reservations, but the more he thought about it, the more attached he became to the idea that James Potter was his father. He spoke truly when he said nothing would change. He would still be trapped by the collar of this blasted scar, but he had a name now. A true name with his father's blessing right smack in the middle.

"Oh, Yrsa. I wish you were here," he said to the empty room.

She would know what to say to make him feel right. He missed her bright smile and chipper voice. Perhaps too chipper, but she was a common girl with a heart too big for her. She was as trapped by her nature as Dyre. He wanted to believe that this would all turn out well, that the blood would prove true, and he could return to a family that had mourned him for fifteen long years.

Yet, he knew that such things like happy endings did not exist. If Karkaroff ever released him, could he really abandon Durmstrang? He kept the school running far more than Karkaroff. He loved Iceland. He loved the mountains, and he loved the cold. He loved the Tower and its tight almost vertical spirals and its sharp spires. He could not abandon Yrsa or the Maiden. He loved them both too much.

The Maiden used to tell him that he was created to love everyone, but he had somewhere shoved all his love into two people. Dyre liked to think like that. He liked to think that he didn't need anyone else but the two of them, the only two people in the world that could never leave him, confined to the Tower. He liked to think that he didn't need to care for anyone but them.

Green eyes flashed, tears shining in red hair.

Grey towers swirling in mists beneath a halo of light.

Why would he think of that? Why would he think of Draco Malfoy? He touched his fingers to his lips, remembering the warm flesh of his hand and the light race of a pulse beneath his fingers. A gorgeous boy with everything in the world had no need for a scarred servant like Dyre, a cursed slave.

As always, he thought about what it would be like to serve someone better, someone who deserved his loyalty. His father served Lucius. The blonde was regal enough, but Dyre didn't think he could serve Draco. He didn't think he could serve anyone. He was too brazen, too prone to fantasies like power and independence.

He sometimes wished Karkaroff would pass the bond to Victor as the Bulgarian had offered so many times. However, Karkaroff knew that Victor would release him and Dyre would seek revenge. And even if he didn't, why would Karkaroff give up someone like Dyre, someone he had complete control over? True, he was a nuisance and a pest, but his pride allowed for nothing else. Karkaroff still held him in thrall, and that power, the power to make Dyre carry out his commands, his wishes, his every desire, was intoxicating.

Victor would not be able to free him after tasting that power, anyway. Then, Dyre would be forced to hate him. Dyre did not want to. He did not want to put the lord through that, and he did not want to lose the only male that might have been his friend.

It was better that a fool like Karkaroff held him. Dyre would feel no guilt in killing him and without true talent, Dyre's abilities were being wasted, which Dyre could not protest to. Abilities like his should not be used at all. It was a blessing that Karkaroff aspired only to this.

In truth, Dyre could probably have brought him the world.

He picked back up the sheet, pushing up his glasses. If Karkaroff tried that, he would slip. He had neither the talent nor the skill to control him. He would slip, and Dyre would kill him.

Dyre hated this damn stalemate. It was tedious. Painful and overwhelmingly tedious. It was just another reason to hate the man.

o.O.o

As the Halloween feast approached, the students became more and more frenzied. The professors were having a difficult time controlling their classes as the children gossiped excitedly. Even Snape was having trouble successfully intimidating his class, resulting in several cauldrons imploding and many painful trips to the infirmary.

When the feast finally came, no one was more relieved than the teachers. Sirius and Remus had once more come down from the office to oversee the choosing of the champions. Dyre was standing behind Victor Krum's seat, making his first appearance in several weeks. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he looked little worse for wear. Karkaroff had taken Dumbledore's warning to heart, but he was working the boy to the bone.

Sirius' and Remus' gaze did not leave him though they were hardly the only ones staring. Half the table was ignoring their meals in order to obsess over the boy. Severus scoffed, but his eyes rested upon his dark head every few minutes as if checking to make sure he was still there.

The noise in the hall was cacophonous, and nothing that Krum was saying to the child could be picked out. Eventually the seeker sat down, and Dyre blended back into the wall. Lucius noticed that Draco had foregone his usual seat by the wall to sit opposite him. It was unusual in that he exposed his back to the entire school. Lucius was beginning to suspect his promiscuous son was developing a crush on the north-man.

The clinking of cutlery and drivel ceased as soon as Dumbledore rose. Of course, being who he was, he thought it was funny to grab a plate from the opposite end of the table and return to his seat. The groans of the students only widened his smirk. After Severus gave him a scathing retort, Albus, with a small pout, rose again, this time proceeding to the frothing goblet in the center of the room.

The goblet's flame was a blue-white. It was a squat fire, licking the edge of the gold rim. Dyre knew for a fact that Victor was going to be the Durmstrang champion. The others had only come for show. Even with his gimpy leg, Victor was the best fighter, winning more rounds of Holmgang than any of the other students. He was a fierce and critical opponent. Dyre was less sure about Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, though he saw an arrogant girl sitting primly in her seat. She sipped from her cup as if nothing important was taking place, but her eyes were sharp and focused intently on the goblet.

Dumbledore stopped before the cup. "The goblet is almost ready to make its decision," he announced. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champion's names are called, I would ask them to please come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber."

Eyes followed his hand to the door behind the staff table.

"There you will be given further instruction," he said.

His eyes sparkled for a second brighter than the fire. Then, the lights in the pumpkins were extinguished, and an anxious silence fell over the Hall. The bright glow of the Goblet of Fire illuminated the faces closest to it, giving several students the appearance of enraptured skulls. Dyre felt the heavy mood affecting him as he began to eye the fire with bated breath.

With a gentle whoosh followed by several awed gasps, the flame stretched high as if pulling from inside itself. The flame turned a cherry red. With a few excited sparks, a single tongue flashed upward licking the air. On its end a single charred noted fluttered down. The tongue returned, and the fire squatted, blue-white once more.

Dumbledore snatched the piece of paper from the air. Eyes watched him nervously wide with anxiety. Dumbledore looked at it then reached into his robes for his glasses. A few clipped curses met him, most from the potions professor though he would later refute it. Dumbledore slipped the glasses on and gave a cough that might have been a chuckle.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," he said with exaggerated slowness, "is Fleur Delacour!"

The girl Dyre had noticed earlier rose gracefully from her seat among a chorus of applause. She walked along the Ravenclaw, stopping only to give a neat, smug courtesy to her headmistress. Madam Maxine looked very pleased and clapped with the rest of her school, proud eyes following her out.

The goblet turned red again, and the applause fell. The flames shot out, propelling the second piece of paper forward. Dumbledore caught it again as the flames simmered.

"The Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory!"

Cheers erupted from the Hufflepuff table. A statuesque male with bronze hair and a chiseled chin was propelled forward by his housemates' enthused hands. He stumbled forward with a silly grin. He gave a gorgeous, happy smile to Professor Sprout, who beamed, folding her hands into her bosom.

All that was left was Victor, Dyre thought, as the second champion disappeared behind the door. The flames shot up. Dumbledore stretched a long hand and looked at the parchment and said nothing. Everyone watched as his face fell, and he reread and reread the scrap of paper as if he could not believe.

"Get on with it, Dumbledore!" Karkaroff shouted impatiently.

Dumbledore's head rose and connected across the Slytherin table. For a second, Dyre really thought it was going to land on Victor. He was right there. However, the gaze slipped past him without pause, connected with his own mismatched cursed eyes.

"Dyre Durmstrang."

Everyone was quiet. Heads swiveled towards him, but Dyre could not see them. He could not react. His mouth dropped open, eyes unable to tear from Dumbledore's. This was impossible. Not only was he too young, he wasn't even a student. He didn't even have a wand. There was no way he could compete.

Dimly, he heard Karkaroff's roar, but it seemed very far away. He could only stand there numbly, unable to understand why Dumbledore had called his name instead of Victor Krum. As shouts rang out through the Hall, Dyre could only hear Dumbledore as he spoke through his long beard and wrinkled face, eyes sad and knowing.

"Dyre, up here."

He heard him, but he couldn't move. He could only stand there like a deer caught in the headlights. The Durmstrang students were screaming, and Karkaroff was shouting at Dumbledore or he might have been shouting at him. The only one seemingly able of function was Victor as he grabbed Dyre's elbow and literally shoved him towards the staff table. It broke the spell Dyre was under, and he left the room, the angry shouts, the confusion, and the accusations that were suddenly blaring in his ears.

The door closed behind him, and silence descended. It was a nice room, a foyer with a blazing fire, warm rugs, and a wide window overlooking the entrance to Hogwarts. There was a bowl of peppermints on the coffee table, looking sugary and sweet. Their white stripes were blatantly brilliant to Dyre.

The other two champions looked confused, obviously expecting Krum. Well, Dyre was expected Krum to be in here as well. He couldn't quite seem to separate with the door either. It was a problem easily corrected as his headmaster slammed through the door, catapulting him halfway across the floor to land over the edge of the pastel pink couch. Dyre managed to turn over before Karkaroff's hands were on him, and indignant shouts filled the room.

"What did you do!?" the man shouted, spittle flying onto Dyre's face. "You've ruined me! You've ruined my school! How dare you! How did you do it?!"

Dyre saw the hand moving towards him, but he was too much in shock to duck the blow. Karkaroff's hand cuffed him, and he fell to the floor, chipping his head on the mantle. The shouting had gotten louder, but Dyre could only detect a buzz in his ears. His vision swam, and his head rang. He was vaguely aware that Karkaroff was aiming a kick at his stomach and rolled on instinct, folding in to accept the blow so its damage would be lessoned.

The kick never came however as Karkaroff was manhandled away from him, several strong and well-seasoned hands restraining him as Lily Potter knelt on the floor. Her hands lifted his face, and Dyre felt blood trickle down the side of his head. It dripped onto the floor and stained his collar. He suddenly thought that it was going to take forever to clean yet another set of robes.

With Lily's prodding, he straightened, but he could not hear the words she cooed to him through the ringing. He had a concussion, he diagnosed. The numbness would wear off soon, and he was going to start vomiting. He swayed and was caught by the elbow. Someone was asking him questions, but the words were too gargled to make sense.

A pale hand pressed a potion into his own. He stared at it with his double vision, wondering how it had gotten there, before he uncorked it and sniffed the contents. The scent of a well-made pain potion met him, and he did not hesitate to down the mixture. Immediately, the buzzing faded, and his vision cleared, though the nausea did not. The flustered shouting of his headmaster was the first thing to greet his ears.

"We are through! This is over with! Do you hear me!? We are returning! I will not have a servant competing for my school!"

His rage was slightly impeded by the three men holding him back, one of which Dyre instantly recognized as a werewolf. His mad eyes gleamed like a shot of whiskey, and with his second eye, he could see the hint of moon in his stance. Another he recognized as James, but the other he had only caught glimpses of from the first days he had been here. He recognized him as one of the men present at his first visit to Dumbledore's office.

Suddenly, Karkaroff's violent bawling was cut off. Though his lips still moved, nothing was coming out. Dyre looked over to see Dumbledore with his wand out, and his eyes trained on Karkaroff with an anger that Dyre was shocked to see on the grandfatherly old man. He could suddenly understand how this man had defeated Banebringer. The wand trained in his hand was held in a tight grip, forefinger following the line of wood to steady it. His eyes, which Dyre had seen only in merriment and occasionally with sadness, were hard as river stones, like a robin's egg turned to gargoyle.

"You will refrain from striking your charge."

His voice was steely, but Dyre could feel the thunder in it. As always, the scent of power awakened his second eye. Dyre covered it quickly as the orb suddenly ricocheted off his skull, spiraling around to catch the sight of that beautiful taste of power. The echoes of the magic performed in this room were suddenly brilliantly bright. The wards gleamed, pulsing with the heart of the school. He could see the runes crafted into the castle, into the fire, into the peppermint bowl. The people around him were suddenly walking candlesticks, though the fire consumed all of them instead of just the wick.

He pushed against his eye, begging it to stop. Everything was too loud, too bright, too extraordinary. The demons of the netherworld were starting to resurface through the walls of the illusion. He could feel them bleeding through his defenses, eyes narrowing as they tried to find the source of this new presence walking among them. Dyre could feel their hunger and their awful desire to maim, to bleed, to destroy.

Then, it was gone again, pushed behind his shield, and he was once more in a room in a school in Scotland. In a room he wasn't supposed to be in, in a school that wasn't his, and in a country that he did not belong to. His knees began to wobble, and the nausea was back again in full force. He moved his hand from his eye to his mouth in a frugal attempt to swallow his bile.

Crouch was explaining that Dyre must compete. The Goblet of Fire was a magical contract, and it could not be broken. As his sponsor, Karkaroff could not back out either. James and his companions had released Karkaroff, but they stood ready to restrain him again, looking like they would enjoy it as well. Several other people were in the room as well.

Madam Maxine was conversing in quick French with Delacour. Professor Snape was close behind him with Professor Potter, looking prepared to catch him if he collapsed. Dyre wasn't going to collapse. He didn't know how he would manage the trip back to the ship, but he was not going to collapse. Lucius Malfoy was in the room as well, a quiet calculating observer instead of a participant. He stood with his hands crossed over his cane, shooting looks of contempt at Igor, who was still arguing with Ludo Bagman and Crouch.

For once, Dyre was in complete agreement with Karkaroff. He didn't want to compete. He didn't put his name in the goblet, so he hadn't signed any legal binding contract with a damn cup. He was younger than the other competitors, wandless, and untrained. The hell he had to compete!

"He is no champion of mine!" Karkaroff was shouting. "I wash my hands of this!" He looked over a Dyre, fury spitting into his face and beady eyes. "You are banished you hear! You will get no help from Durmstrang!"

With that, he stormed out, Bagman following on his heels, plaintive arguments bouncing off the tall man's broad shoulders. So Dyre was homeless now on top of everything else. He didn't care. None of the students besides Victor would have dared to help him anyway. At least, this way he was free from harassment.

Dyre knew that Karkaroff was hoping he was going to be killed in this competition. It was an easy way to get out of their bond. Dyre officially was a ward of the Maiden, and only she could cast him out of Durmstrang. Still, Igor could cast him off his ruddy ship. Well, let's just see how well he does without Dyre's assistance, he thought spitefully. With no one to wash the laundry, prepare the rooms, and do Karkaroff's duties the headmaster was looking at a close rebellion.

Dyre would have smiled if the situation weren't so shitty. He still had to compete in a tournament that had claimed much more experienced fighters than he without assistance and without a wand or sword. This sucked. And now he had nowhere to fucking sleep.

"Dyre?"

He looked up from his angry brooding into the sky-blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. Dyre still had a hand over his mouth to quell his stomach so his response was rather muffled. His legs were about to give out as well. He noticed that Madam Maxine and her champion had left along with Crouch and Bagman. Diggory had been shuffled off somewhere too. Dyre was the only outsider left.

"Dyre, you should know that you have the backing of my school, and you are of course welcome to stay in the castle."

Oh. Well… that was good. He wouldn't have to camp out in the forest. Although, he was quite adept at that.

Dyre would have said something but he was afraid that if he opened his mouth he was going to spew up his morning broth on them. Dumbledore's eyes crinkled before his eyes ran over to the side of Dyre's head. They hardened, and aged hands handled his chin fragilely, turning so that the ruptured mound of flesh would be visible in the light. Dumbledore's hand came away coated in blood.

Dyre hissed, and he couldn't hold it in anyway. He made it to the fireplace before he chunked up the grayish-white lumps of his porridge. He hung over the mantle as it all came spewing up, coating his throat in sour acid. Someone was holding him up, brushing the matted hair from his neck. He heaved again but nothing came up but spittle. It dripped from his mouth, dangling down on the rancid mess. Dyre didn't have the strength to wipe it away.

His head was pounding. A drop of blood slid down his jaw line and fell in the colorless sick. The red stood out, mixing with the watery bile. Dyre couldn't take it and dry heaved. The heat of the nearby fire was making him hot and uncomfortable. He pushed away from the mantle and knelt on the floor over an armchair, breathing heavily through the horrid pain in his head. He shied away from the hands, experience with helping hands not really turning out to be so helpful.

Something cool touched his head, and he relaxed on instinct. A vial was pushed to his lips, and he drank, thinking nothing could be worse than this pain. The throbbing began to ease, and he was able to think. He was still pale and trembling, his throat sore and his tongue rancid. Weakly, he reached over and popped in a few peppermints. Their cool, sweet taste was relaxing, and he surrendered to the hands rubbing circles on his back.

"Better?" Lily asked.

Dyre nodded, moving the candy around his mouth. He was too exhausted to reply verbally. His head was numb, giving off the slight tingle of an anesthetic. The potions professor was rubbing salve into the wound. His long gentle fingers were coated in what Dyre recognized as burlap sap and wormwood infusions.

"Sorry," he croaked in his ruined throat.

"Hush," Snape said strictly though his fingers remained tender and soothing. "Don't let your fool of a headmaster strike you next time."

Dyre didn't say anything, wanting more than anything to be left alone.

"Why won't my legs work?" he asked around the peppermint.

"Because the potion I gave you was maximum strength, and you're limbs are not going to work for quite some time."

"How am I going to get to my room?"

Snape gave him an Are-you-stupid-look. "You will be floated or carried, of course."

"I'm fine here," Dyre said, not liking that at all.

"Not your decision," he said before Lily could object with motherly concern.

Dyre eyes hardened. "You don't have to help me."

"I believe the polite thing to do at this moment is get off your high horse and thank us instead of arguing and causing more problems."

"Severus!" Lily shouted.

Snape ignored her, focusing his attention on Dyre and his slowly healing wound.

"Thank you, Master Snape," Dyre said, surprising him with his soft compliance. He tried to move and failed. "I need to thank Master Dumbledore as well."

"Unless he concocts another harebrained scheme that sends him off the continent, he will be here in the morning. I am sure your impatience can be put on hold until then."

Dyre smiled, finding his wry sense of humor pleasing. He looked around his back towards Lily, who was glaring aggressively at Severus.

"Thank you as well, Madam Potter."

Lily cut off her glaring to turn to him. She gave a subtle blush, but the look in her eyes was sad.

"You're my son. You don't need to thank me."

The sleeping potion Severus had mixed in with the draught finally kicked in and before Dyre could say anything, his head hit the cushion with a soft plop. The others, who were hiding in the shadows so as not to crowd the boy, moved forward to gaze at him.

So many shadows. So many trials and so much pain. How was he going to survive? No matter though, they were going to be beside him. They were never going to leave him again.


	5. A Stolen Life

_I didn't know you could steal your own life. And I didn't know that it would bring you no more benefit than about anything else you might steal. I think I done the best with it I knew how but it still wasn't mine. It never has been._

~ No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

Dyre hated this. He hated not knowing what was expected of him. With Karkaroff, at least he understood his place. Here, everything was skewed. There was someone constantly watching him, and as he had always been mostly invisible to his peers, he found this behavior odd. Especially when none of the usual hackling and roughhousing ensued. He quickly found that he could not handle being in close proximity with either of his… parents.

Their eyes were so pleading, so intense in their emotions, that Dyre was forced to make a quick retreat when faced with their familial concerns and expectations, expectations that he could never fulfill. More often than not he slipped through the castle like an aimless vagrant. He really hated being idle. After a few days of passive, redundant wandering, Madam Sprout finally snagged him. He enthusiastically joined her gardening, and while at first withdrawn, he gradually began to open to her light-hearted banter.

He saw Victor passing through the halls every once in a while. The Bulgarian harbored no ill will for his illegal championing, unlike his peers, who glared viciously whenever opportunity gave them. Under the watchful eye of the teachers, they had yet to accost him but Dyre knew they would not linger in wait forever.

He caught little sight of the Malfoy boy. Mostly they shared the same hallway in between the blonde's classes and Dyre's roaming. He was always pressed between teens, drooling admirers who trailed in his wake like devoted minions. Dyre could not suppress an amused smile whenever he saw this. The prince did not want for attention, Dyre mused.

Still, despite his musing, he noticed that every time they passed the young Malfoy made sure to catch his eye. Amid his entourage, he stood out like a shepherding beacon. His near-silver hair shone among his darker peers, his gait rich in etiquette and royalty. He was finely drawn. Dyre's previous study had not quelled under his attention. Draco Malfoy was still as beautiful as the day he had impulsively reached down to draw his hand to his lips. And surprisingly, the young lord did not scorn him for it.

Mostly people treaded carefully around him. The Potters acted as if he was going to break at any minute and no one knew what to do with him. It seemed they were as confused as he was. The only one who gave him any type of solace was Dumbledore. The old rascal had thrown him for quite a loop. Sometimes, it was impossible to compare the man talking about bubble baths while extracting lemon drops from his beard to the great wizard that defeated Grindleward.

He had told Dyre the date of the first task and what it was about, which was nothing. He gave some tripe about daring and courage and nothing else, not that Dyre really minded. This entire thing was so surreal that he had just decided to treat it like the game it was. If they were going to force him to compete he was going to prove to Karkaroff just how much of an idiot he was.

It was a dangerous field he played. If Karkaroff got a true taste of what Dyre could do then he might obtain grand notions of his own augustness. He could wreak a lot of havoc before Dyre killed him. Dyre could do a lot of damage.

But, damn, it was not in his nature to resist a challenge! And this was a great challenge. To participate in the games without wand or sword… Dyre wondered how truly he could play to himself, if he could test the limits he had placed on himself to restrict Karkaroff's power. If Karkaroff knew what power he wielded, he would not be contented to have him play maid.

Dyre felt himself scowl, startling a few owls in the rookery. The tower near shook with the thunder of wings and cooing. The ground and perches were coated in thick white sludge. The tiny carcasses of mice, reptiles, and the occasional beetle crunched underfoot, as Dyre watched the birds preen and sleep. He knew that the European wizards used owls as messengers, but Dyre could not really imagine using an owl. It seemed slightly blasphemous even, like using a raven. Birds of prey were not meant to serve man like this.

He gave a low whistle. A large owl swooped down from one of the top perches. He extended his arm, and he felt her sharp claws pierce through his tunic and flesh. She was heavy, the crown of her head and the outer layer of her wings crusted in brown and golden feathers. The heart-shaped quality of her face gave her a strange expression, almond shaped black eyes burrowed slightly into her face. Her nose looked as if it was pulled down, the neck pressing into what would have been her chin. The soft underbelly was warm with downy feathers, white speckled with arrows of black. Her head swiveled, and her long talons readjusted her grip, detaching and sinking further into his now bloodied arm.

Dyre bore it stoically, feeling his bones near break beneath the weight and pressure. The owl was unconcerned. Dyre made a gentle shushing noise that he reserved for all birds. A young Burrowing Owl sat on a nearby window, extreme in its contrast to the magnificent creature on his arm. He tilted his head comically, watching the two of them. He gave a small hop and made a cute chirp as if to ask him what he thought he was doing. The female turned to him, hunching. She spread her wings in swift communication and turned again, treating Dyre like she would any common tree limb.

Dyre gave a soft smile. She was swift and lofty but she possessed none of the great cunning of the greater beasts. Dyre could not communicate with her. He raised his arm and flung her weight upward. Recognizing the command, she bunched her chest, crouching on her thick limbs. She took off, taking most of Dyre's flesh with her. Dyre gave a wince, feeling her claws hit bone. She was a great predator, but stripped of magical intelligence, she had nothing left but the purpose of carrying post.

Dyre was sad to watch her as she took roost in one of the higher eaves, tucking into her bristled feathers. If he was correct, this wasn't even her native land. She belonged to the backwater underbelly of Australia. Dyre held his limp arm to him. It dragged, dripping blood and soaking into his grey habit.

The Burrowing Owl gave another… what could only be described as a yip, hopping on the stained alcove. It was a nondescript fellow, probably purchased by one of the lesser wizarding families, one with less money but more hearth. The angle of its brow was not as severe as its brethren and inside of scowling it seemed to give a lopsided look of wry contemplation.

"Fidgety fellow, aren't you?" Dyre asked.

Dyre walked over to the port, leaving a trail of blood that rubbed into his dulled shoes.

"Hello, little one," he said, expertly ignoring the painful throbbing in his arm. "Did you care to sit on my arm as well?"

In answer, the creature dove quickly. He skirted the massacre of miniature skeletons, dipping and gliding high. He sat on Dyre's shoulder, not once having to flap his small wings. Dyre had to admit that this one settled much easier. The little bird was close to his ear, tickling his lobe. Dyre gave an amused smile.

"You bring me no omens I do not know for myself," Dyre told him.

Without the iniquity of breeding and potion-inducing plumage, he had retained his otherworldly intelligence, the knowledge of a harbinger, one of the creatures skirting the line between death and life. Like Dyre.

Dyre blinked.

Many creatures belonged to Dyre. All of their own free will, but owls had never claimed sovereignty to a master, save mighty Athena. Ravens shared the secrets of the nook and crannies, the swan songs of a thousand dying men lying across the battlefield. They heard things, spoke with the dead as they consumed them, took in all the secrets of the flesh they devoured. Battle spawn. They belonged to Dyre, of a fashion.

Owls were completely different. All birds were different. Some carried no intellect and others possessed too much, like Loki's crows. Evil wretches, crows, Dyre thought with a small shudder, though they too proved useful. Owls however were in a separate category altogether. Owls watched the ley lines, or whatever the hell man chose to call the prevalent ambiance that conjoined structural energies.

Ravens conferred with the dead. Owls conferred with Death. Ravens, like vultures, could smell the sickness in people, could feel the ground screaming when blood was spilled, premeditate it even. In that, they were sly and cunning and very patient.

Owls sensed the presence of Death. Not the fleeting maladies and ripples sparked from the first tenacious cough to the painful moaning on the sickbed. Like cats, they kept their counsel to themselves. Dyre spoke to many creatures through the curse in his eye, saw many things that should not be seen and heard whispers in the quiet. The owls were not his. They belonged to themselves, playing with worlds that even Dyre could not see. To have an owl speak to you was a great honor, but it also came with a price.

Dyre could feel the Burrowing Owl settling in his burrs, fluffed like a little fuzz. His beak clicked, and in the endearing chatter, Dyre could hear the heavy swathe of a dark shroud being laid over him. The shroud of being advised by an owl.

Dyre shook himself free of the forewarning. He reached up and patted its little head. With his good arm since the other was beyond such acts at the moment.

"Alright, little omen, I heed you. Return to your roosting."

Impertinent, the fellow sidled along his shoulder, clipping the sensitive area of his neck lightly. Dyre gave a jarring motion, unused the feeling of sleek yet downy burrs nestling in such an exposed space. The little owl gave what might be considered a giggle, continuing its ministrations by nipping his ear.

"Alright, vermin," Dyre said, raising his voice, trying to push him off without actually moving, since that would be an offense.

The owl seemed to sense his unease and thought his courtesy very humoring. Dyre was about to forgo civility and shove the bird off roughly, but the creature hopped down, taking an ungraceful leap onto the soiled ground. His wings flapped like loose bed linens, useless in their fluttering, but they steadied him until he reached the ground. Dyre got the urge to give the fellow a good kick but refrained. The owl hopped over his shoes and like a shade disappeared into the deep congested mess of bones and pellets.

Dyre still buzzed with the twisted warning, convoluted with sharp clicks like nails on stone and the soft whisper of the owl's own tiny voice.

_That which lies forsaken comes for you. He rises fast and swift and he seeks to capture you in his tongue. The dark roads crawl with him. Do not travel the in-betweens. _

He knew what he meant, what every animal that delivers a message inevitably says. You are being hunted. Dyre understood the implications. This tournament was not just some shortsighted jest gone wrong or a fucked up spell botched in translation. Someone was orchestrating this event, playing him like a marionette, but what did they want? The obvious answer was dead. Dyre was a hard man to kill. His death brought about the wrath of one whom to anger would risk one's immortal soul. Other than that, Dyre was by no means defenseless, even without a wand or sword.

And who was playing him? He could think of no one to benefit from this. Karkaroff might want a faceless way to kill him, but he was too arrogant and stupid to do this. He would never conspire to place a servant as his school's champion. Dyre had precious few other enemies. Little schoolboys who aspired to be kings notwithstanding.

Dyre tapped his finger on his lip as he stood outside the rookery. After a moment, he removed his outer robes. The torn sleeve was soaked red and auspicious. This was the first time he had been without guard, and he did not want to give the impression that he couldn't handle himself. He set the habit on the hard stone turning frosty in the evening air. Still not cool enough for the rigid grace of Iceland. His undershirt was thin, a starch white material that chafed if one was not used to it. Without drawstrings, it was just one uniform piece of grey, though the right sleeve was blatantly red. The torn flesh and muscle was revealed beneath the cloth. Skin flapped over the fabric, stinging in the chilling air.

Carefully, Dyre pulled the undershirt over his head. His arm was enflamed, swollen purple and yellow where thick swathes of red blossomed, dripping like cold liquor. Dyre bit his lip, reviewing the damage. He pinched the skin together, holding the dangling filaments with nothing more than determination and thin, callused fingers. He let the Maiden's words filter through him, leaving him in a thick glow much like the owl had.

Slowly, he began knitting the flesh. He could see his own ley lines. Not really ley lines but he had little else to call them. The Maiden called them river stones. In her low husky voice, she had taught him to tell the pieces of magic in each strand of muscle, vein and tendon, taught him to weave them with his mind like a true disciple of the Tower. He could see the patchwork, the way the lines were supposed to lie.

With determined vigor, he pushed the pieces back into place securing them with taut bridges. The stretches of skin clung together because they _wanted_ to, not because Dyre had told them to. His arm was meant to be this way, unbroken, seamless. One part of a great whole that moved and flowed and changed as much as it stayed the same.

Dyre could do nothing for the blood loss and resolved to snitch a bundle of sweets from the house elves. He turned to his habit. The blood was now a dark, ugly stain in the sleeve. Dyre really hated sewing, but he always had a habit of tearing the damn things. Robes were in short supply to people like him. He supposed he was going to have to deal with it. He moved his now healed arm over the stain.

There was magic in blood, and Dyre could hear it calling to him. The fact that it was his made it all the more easy. Because the wool was untended, possessing not even the mildest warming charm, it was marginally easy to coax his blood from the material. It wavered in a crusted maroon ball, looking more like a spray of rust. Part of it had yet to dry and it clumped together in a lopsided ball. Dyre held it still until it was seamless, compacting it until it was barely bigger than his pinky. It looked like a rusty marble, innocent enough in its dark form. It was held over Dyre outstretched hand. He could already feel it beginning to crumble away. As he held it out over the stone, it drifted away. It rose like dust over the air, disappearing into infantile particles not too far out.

Dyre donned his undershirt, tucking the tails into his breeches. It was still a messy, wet red, but no one would see it through the habit. Though the tear was large, the sway of the cloth concealed much. The most noticeable thing about it was the four-pronged tear, but Dyre could do nothing about that here. That had to be done by hand. He was a fair hand at the needle but it was a bore. A terrible, tremendous bore.

He grouched on the way back down to the castle. He reasoned if he really cared that much he shouldn't have called the Masked Owl down. He was just curious though and she had seemed the strongest of the parliament. It figured that it would be a little Burrowing Owl, one of the only owls that was not nocturnal, that proved to be the strongest. Dyre was still half-heartedly irritated when he was bowled over by James Potter.

"Harry! There you are!"

"Shh!" Dyre hissed, covering his father's mouth with his hand. He pushed him against a wall. The older taller man, surprised, went with him.

He eyed the corridor, but classes were over. Nobody had heard him but there were a few curious eyes watching him accost their Defense professor's husband. Dyre pulled away, glaring at him. Potter gave him a sheepish, nervous smile, and Dyre grew angrier. The man just didn't get it. That or he didn't care.

"Was there something you needed, Master Potter?" Dyre asked acidly.

James, about a foot taller than Dyre, shrank away from him. His eyes were truly contrite now, and Dyre felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He growled at himself, disgusted by his sentimentality. Potter thought it must have been directed at him because he winced.

"I, uh, I just wanted you to practice with us for a bit," James Potter said uneasily.

Dyre eyed him suspiciously, though the full acerbity of his gaze was absent. "Practice what?" Dyre asked in a level tone.

He was going to Hel before he agreed to play target practice for another demented teacher. Father or not.

Potter looked up and down the hall. Thor's Hammer but could he be any more conspicuous? Dyre tried to not let the man - his father, he reminded himself - get under his nerves. He waited patiently, somehow managing to glare down at the man.

"Well, you know, with the Tournament," James petered off. He raked a hand through his disordered hair. Dyre watched the movement hawkishly, like he was listening to a secret. "I thought… We've all gathered to see if you can duel."

The last sentence was said in a rush, as if he had finally gotten impatient with himself and just flung everything out. He looked uncomfortable but unrepentant. There was a hopeful look in his eyes, and Dyre realized that this man really was trying. He didn't understand Dyre anymore than Dyre understood him, but he was struggling through the slew of unfamiliarity to approach him.

It was wearying as much as it was flattering. Dyre decided to take a tactful approach and give himself time to think.

"Who is 'we'?"

"Oh," James said, blushing. His hand went in his hair again. "Well, Lily wanted to make sure you were properly prepared and she kind of invited Lucius and Lucius might have invited Draco who dragged along Victor. I'm not sure how Severus got invited but he's there too." He paused. "Albus said he would watch."

Dyre gave a sigh. These people really went all out didn't they? By the Gods.

"Let me change," Dyre conceded.

Potter's face lit up like an Incedio. Dyre regarded him like one might a small child, shaking his head as he _skipped_ off to inform the others and giving him directions to the corridor where they were to be practicing. Dyre made the walk to his new room on his own. He didn't know why he was doing this, why he was letting them get close to him. He couldn't stay. Neither his bond nor his nature allowed it. Still, he wanted this, he realized. He wanted to learn about his family.

He wanted it so bad he was almost bleeding of it. He supposed since he had warned them, it wouldn't be so bad to engage in small pleasantries. Victor was there so they could not get too beyond propriety. By Thor, he hoped Lily didn't try to hug him. He knew she was aching to do so since she saw him, but such a thing was forbidden, he thought unyieldingly.

In his room, he flung his habit over his head, not bothering with the clasps. Blood had brushed the inside again and he turned it inside out. His undershirt he lied over it, careful to get none of the stains on the furniture. It really was an elegant room, he thought as he surveyed it for the thousandth time.

A fire was eternally crackling in the hearth, moderated for temperature and void of logs and ash. It burned alone in the grate, looking very cold for all the warmth it gave off. The mantel itself was stone and carved with ancient beasts. This was a guest suite, made to impress and impress it did. The battling creatures climbed over the hearth, unmoving stone relics. Half-beasts, some lying slain and others tempting fruit to curly haired children, crawled in the stone. They lured the children to dark woods or reared back on animal hinds to accept a blade. It was old but Dyre could see the sways of Christianity in the depictions.

It made him very sad.

The rest of the room was done in warm, rich colors. Brocade in maroon and gold framed the window. Sheer white curtains lied beneath them, lending subtle grace to the heavy fabric and thick floral swirls. The canopy matched the brocade, tied with golden chords to the dark posts. Dyre had made the bed before he left, but a house elf had gone over it, flattening out the edges as if with an iron. It looked crisp and unmovable. The white pillows were erect squares at the headboard.

It made Dyre uncomfortable. The thick plush carpet and huge mahogany dresser, which not even six times his apparel would fill, made him feel out of place and unclean. He didn't go in the adjoining bathroom, but he knew it would be sparkly clean. He knew the mirror would hint at concealing charms for his ruined face and try to coerce him into taming his unruly hair. Hair that he seemed to have inherited from his father, he mulled.

He probably would have felt better sleeping in the woods.

He was not one for discourtesy though and had said nothing. He had slept beneath the bed every night that he had been here, trying to fall into slumber on the surprisingly soft sheets and pliable mattress but it was no use. He missed the Tower.

Dyre climbed out of his breeches, which were stained by blood splatters and bird shit. The blood did not show much in the dark material but the droppings where pretty visible. His knees were padded with dirt from his early morning gardening with Madam Sprout but that too was invisible. He pulled open the top drawer of the dresser, the only one that had anything in it, and pulled out his secondary uniform. The only other pair of clothes he had was the more formal uniform that Karkaroff bade him wear when he had to attend to guests. The cut was different, more polished and refined, and the Durmstrang crest was steadied with charms to keep it from unraveling.

His boots were dulled and unpolished. Had he been an acolyte, he would undoubtedly be punished for such disregard to his uniform, but as a servant he was afforded some type of reprieve. As it was, it was hard to keep his boots in top condition. His second pair was not even broken in. He wore those only when he was forced to parade about for the Headmaster, and he did not relish the feeling of the blisters and welts that formed on his heels and ankles. The Maiden at least made sure his attire was not falling apart, but they were hardly in good condition.

He tucked his breeches, the same breeches he had been wearing for two years straight, into his boots. He contemplated getting the hidden blade from his fold but decided against it. That was personal. He was gripping his robe in his teeth and tucking his undershirt into his pants when he kicked the door closed behind him. He was rushing down the hall, feeling like he was late for something important. It took him a moment after he was straightening his habit, clasping the knot at his shoulder, to realize that he was nervous, which was stupid.

He wasn't nervous about being in a room of well-trained adult wizards. He was nervous that they would find him lacking. It was stupid because he didn't really care what they thought. They knew nothing about him despite their shared blood. This was just to appease their sense of duty. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that his father was going to watch him fight.

Sweat suddenly blossomed in his hands, and he cursed, rubbing his palms on his robe. The corridor was on the third floor. It extended straight from the stairs, which were rather disconcerting in that they moved beneath him, and he had to backtrack three times. The long stretch of hallway was empty, and he wondered for a moment if this had been a trick. He was prepared to go back and give himself a hardy thrashing when from the corner of his eye he caught movement.

A door that had certainly not been there before opened, revealing the happy face of Lily Potter. Her red hair was braided, and he blinked for a second, thinking of the braiding ritual in which married women gathered in the hall. He shook his head, cursing himself again for acting like an idiot.

"There you are, Harry. I'm glad you came."

"It's Dyre, Madam Potter," Dyre said in a pained voice as he approached the door.

Lily had the grace to look more embarrassed than her husband and held the door wide for him. It was a long wide room. A green fire belched in the hearth. Well-worn training dummies were lying across the walls out of the way. The center space had been cleared and a brown mat had been laid out. It reminded Dyre faintly of a Holmgang, though the lines and ritualistic runes were missing.

His audience had already gathered. Indeed, Potter had not been lying. Most everyone he knew in the school was here, barring Madam Sprout and Neville Longbottom who he had met just yesterday. They had anxious, nervous looks on their faces. All except Snape, Dumbledore, and Lucius Malfoy. Even Victor looked uncomfortable, though only Dyre could tell. He kept looking at the door as if he thought the headmaster was going to come bursting through.

"Alright, Dyre," James said, not one for awkward silences, or any silence really. He had clapped his hands together, and though he showed a fair sense of excitement and bravado, his eyes were shiny with apprehension.

Maybe he wasn't the only one concerned about impressing people.

Draco Malfoy stood in a corner off to Victor's side. His eyes alone were unassuming, and Dyre felt safe in grabbing hold of them. They sparkled like Dwarf dust in the mines, catching the heated gleam of the green fire. Dyre slid his gaze away but continued watching the lordling from the corner of his eye as James spoke.

"We've decided that we are going to let you use my wand until you have your own," Potter said, handing him his wand.

Dyre's eyes lit up as he took the wand. It was the first time he had held one but the light was not from self-improving glory. It was humor. He held the stick lightly, caught between two fingers and pointed down. He did not grab the handle. He looked up at Potter from between his lashes, his scarred face smirking.

"You do realize I could be killed for this?" he said in a tone sparkling with humor.

Potter looked uncertain again, but he did not move to take back his wand. His lip tightened. "You are safe in this room."

The wand swung back and forth arrogantly between his fingers. "I will not be allowed a wand in the competition," he said easily.

"Of course you will, Dyre," Dumbledore said, his voice light and trustworthy but firm.

Dyre and Victor both shook their heads. Victor kept glancing at the door and looked very irritated that he could not stop.

"I could," Dyre said as if dangling a piece of food before them, "if Karkaroff consented to it, but he would never do such a thing. He believes I would turn the wand on him."

"Would you?" Lucius asked, ever the practical man.

Dyre thought about it, testing the thought in his head. "Possibly, if it was an accident."

Most of them didn't look too happy hearing how bloodthirsty he sounded, but Dyre did not care, forced himself not to care. Karkaroff was his, his kill.

"Surely, Crouch will let you get a wand," Lily said, grasping at straws.

Dyre's look turned from taunting to sad. "He would, Madam. But the permission form must be sent through our government. It would have to be voted upon by the tribunal to be seen then voted again about whether or not to pass. Even with your Dumbledore pushing for consent, it would not make it back here in time for the first task."

"Perhaps the third," Victor said, thoughtfully. "Uncle might be able to pass a bit of the red tape. He can at least get your file into top priority."

"Why is it so difficult?" Lily asked aghast.

Dyre and Victor exchanged a look.

"I have told you, Madam," Dyre said softly. "I am not a citizen. It would be like a centaur requesting a wand here, I imagine."

"But you're a wizard," Lily argued heatedly.

"I am no such thing," Dyre said sharper than he meant.

Victor sent him a reproachful look, telling him to calm down. He sighed and unconsciously sifting through his hair. Just as James Potter did.

"A wizard is not a being, Madam," Dyre said, carefully choosing his words. "It is a status, one that I was not born with. Or stripped of," he amended belatedly.

"He is right," Lucius said.

Lily and James turned to him as if betrayed. Lucius sneered, but it was a half-hearted gesture, warning them they should not take their anger out on him. He was just reciting law.

James sighed. "So what are you going to train with?"

Dyre smiled, giving his ripped face an impish quality. He raised his arms. "My hands, of course."

Snape sneered. "You can not duel with your hands."

Dyre tossed back James' wand. He caught it expertly.

"What about a sword?" Lily asked.

Dyre shook his head again. "Same problem. The law forbids weapons to those who have not gone through Holmgang."

"What is Holmgang?" Lucius asked curiously. "I have heard talk of it, but it's true meaning is rather elusive."

"Holmgang is sacred," Victor said in a tight voice, looking quite unyielding as he leaned against the tan stone.

"Through a complicated series of ritual that I cannot and will not tell you about," Dyre said waspishly. "Two students battle each other under two constraints. First blood or to the death. Holmgang was first called to alleviate an insult and win back honor. However, in the building of Durmstrang and the Academy, it became necessary to enter Holmgang to win the honor of wearing a weapon. It is part of the final initiation of Durmstrang."

"What happens if you lose?" Lily asked, her brows drawn together.

Dyre gave a gentle smile. "Different things according to the manner of the defeat."

That seemed to be all that he would say on it. Snape was irritated again.

"So you can't use a wand. You can't use a sword. Are you just going to sit out there and die?"

Several people hissed at him simultaneously. Even Dumbledore looked rather putout with him. Victor and Dyre just smiled.

"North-men do not _sit_ and die," Victor said, a strange peel of valor in his dark eyes.

"Aye, perhaps I will get a death worthy enough for the bards. Can you imagine that, Victor?" Dyre said happily. "Bards singing of a servant."

"I've seen stranger things," Victor said, a peculiar grin on his stern face. His eyes flicked, like the glint of sunlight on a drawn blade. "But you shall not die."

Dyre threw back his head, looking at the ceiling as if looking at heaven. They were struck silent by the absurdity of the conversation, the emotion they could not understand. They thought it mad. A thoughtful expression fell over Dyre's upturned face, his features blending more easily with the taut line that pinched the right half of his beautiful face.

"No, I think not," he agreed sadly.

Snape sniffed, casting off the strange air around them. "You are pathetically outmatched."

Dyre looked at him. The green gaze was sparkling with mischief, alcoholic sin at the bottom of a bottle. It was wild but still human, limited by the laws of his creators. It was arrogant, devilish, and insubordinate but still human.

The other was a milky skein of words unsaid. It held a dark promise, ancient as the bottom of a well. Something slow coiled in the mists of that eye, something slow and old that had devoured worlds. It moved with animalistic grace yet with an intelligence far outmatched by the warm-blooded simians. Cold as a lizard, it was something that slithered but also something that flew. It _knew_ things. It played and was content in its knowledge, was even unmoved by it. It was something outside the perimeters of comprehension. It was something that sat and watched, rolling its tongue over its bright shiny teeth.

It was the other eye, the human eye, that challenged it, used it. Snape got the feeling that the creature inside Dyre would be content to sit back and let the world burn, not participating in the fire but not stopping it either. It would be the human side of Dyre, of Harry, that rose to the occasion, that used the awful power in that eye to charm and shape the world. It was deadly, the two sides of him. The indifference warring with the shifty passion.

He was dangerous. He did not need a wand. He did not need a sword. No doubt that he could use the two, but it was not… needed. Snape could see the challenge in there, in the side that shouted "I don't have to obey you!" It was daring him, coaxing him to act, and Severus did, because who can disappoint the master of that conflicting stare.

The spell shot out. Severus didn't know what it was, but he knew it cast a nasty wallop. He was not shocked when Dyre easily sidestepped it. What should have pieced his chest, flew harmlessly over his stretched shoulders. The shouts of the people around them were ignored as they circled each other, Dyre's smile still begging him to try his best, to kill him.

Severus wouldn't kill him, but he would certainly knock some sense into the boy. His second spell was batted away by a small arch of his back. It frizzled out of existence outside the padded circles. Snape had not even realized that they had stepped in it. Dyre was pacing like a restless, wild creature waiting for his next move, and Severus was very patient. The volley of the next spells trickled like pipe work from the end of his wand. It was superb, one after another in a series of complicated jinxes and hexes learned from half a decade of serving a madman. He was quick and precise and absolutely unable to land a hit.

Dyre recognized the spells. He had training. He knew which spells to leap out of the way of and which to conserve his energy. Take a hit, take a dodge, and it didn't matter that Snape seemed clearly better equipped, more experienced, and better trained because Dyre was not letting anything stay. He was not allowing anything to fell him.

Severus had to resort to the harsher spells, the ones that bordered on cruelty. The volley increased as heat, ozone, and brilliant light filled the room. Severus slowly realized that, as he struck, Dyre was slowly circling him towards the center of the ring. As the young boy retreated back, Severus had moved from the edge of the circle to the center, pushing instinctually as he retracted. He realized his mistake too late. He thought it would be ok to overpower the boy, overwhelm him with stunts and magic and light, and Severus had underestimated him. When Dyre was retreating, he was creating the space he needed to charge Severus' unprotected back.

The moment realization hit was too late. As Dyre's plan was discovered, Severus had hesitated. In the space between one spell and the next where there should have been unrelenting dominance lay a single short gap. Dyre needed no more. He slid between the coming spell and the echo of the last one, both glittering past his cheeks. His determined eyes held Severus' for a second, and their gaze conjoined, preempting the end of the duel, one in which Severus knew he had lost.

As Dyre pushed through the supercharged air, Severus tried to react, tried to clothespin him, but Dyre had anticipated this move as well. With his slim built, even his robes hissing and his hair singed, it was easy for him to slide under Severus' arm. There was a single second when nothing stood between Dyre and his victim, his prey, and he was merciless. What had seemed to be playing out in slow motion suddenly fast-forwarded. Dyre's arm slipped around his.

His grip went lax.

Dyre moved his arms up in a slashing motion, bringing Severus' arms with him. His foot came forward, colliding painfully with the tendon in the back of his knee.

Severus fell.

Dyre had his head in a lock, tight around his throat, his weight pushing Severus to his knees. The wand fell from his grip, his hands slack in shock. He squirmed, but he knew it was over, knew that there was no way that Dyre was going to let him go. He also knew that had Dyre wanted to kill him, he could have. One quick jab to the back of his head, the little knot of muscle that Severus _knew_ Dyre was aware of and he would have been dead before he hit the ground.

Severus was bound prostrate, Dyre leaning almost sensually into his back. Gaping faces surrounded them. He felt Dyre smiling next to his ear, waiting for him to say it.

"I yield."

The grip left immediately, and Severus pitched forward. The arch of his back and his raised limbs had put pressure on his lungs, and he coughed as if he had been choked. From the cavern of his greasy hair, he could see a wand being presented to him. Dyre's face was not cocky or self-assured. It was remarkably impressed. His breathing was not solid, coming out in rough pants Severus was pleased to notice. Various cuts and burn marks graced his skin and his wrist was swollen where he had turned funny to dodge a curse. Severus looked more composed, less wearied, more together, but it was clear who had won the duel.

Severus accepted his wand and the hand that came with it. Dyre helped hoist him up, his gaze still merry and bright. A long streak from a second-degree burn framed the left side of his face, almost mirroring his scar. There was a cut across his brow, and each limb had more than one tear or burn. He was not afraid to sacrifice to win, this man.

"Impressive," Severus allowed stoically.

Dyre seemed to light up with the praise, like they were engaging in postcoital chatter. "I've never dodged that fast before. How did you keep up your energy and your accuracy?"

Severus was slightly surprised to be asked. "Training."

Dyre gave the first laugh they had ever heard. It was deep and voluminous as the mountain caverns. It filled the room, filled themselves, seeming to even echo inside each of their chests.

"You must have the heart of an ox," Dyre said wryly.

He turned suddenly, leaving the circle to approach Victor, who looked not at all stunned and particularly proud of his younger colleague.

"Did you see that Victor?' Dyre said happily. "He almost had me with that Blood Boiling Hex."

He seemed absurdly happy about the fact.

"It is good that you are pleased," Victor said simply. His eyes swept down him critically. "Do you require medical attention?"

Dyre suddenly seemed to remember that he was injured and in fact human. He moved the area around his left side. "A bludgeon spell hit me. It might have cracked a rib but I don't think it's broken. My wrist is broken though," he said, holding up the distended appendage.

That finally seemed to snap Lily out of her shock. She blinked and rushed over to them. "Let me see," she ordered with mothering authoritarianism.

Dyre was startled by her attention and dutifully raised the front of his robe for her to survey the damage. Lily was not a Healer, but it did not take a physician to know the purple and yellowing welting around his left side was not good. It was one of the few spells Dyre had taken head-on, and he had not faltered for a second.

"It is amazing that you could move through that," Albus said, watching Lily work over her shoulder.

Dyre shrugged, and even when the movement caused a distorted bulging in his side that made them all wince, he did not flinch.

"It would be easier if you removed your robe," Lily said.

Instead, Dyre lowered his shirt. Lily blinked, suddenly cut off from the nasty wound.

"I'm fine," he told her, shocking them by looking amazingly honest. "I heal on my own."

"I'm not letting that fester," Lily said stubbornly, looking fully intent on stripping the boy bare and tending to him.

Dyre seemed to decide that a compromise was in order and extended his hand. "This one might be broken. Would you like to heal this?"

It was an offering. He didn't care if she healed it one way or the other. He was just trying to make her happy. Lily frowned but began working on his wrist.

"Dyre, do you not feel any pain?" Dumbledore asked.

"Of course," he said. They waited but he said nothing more

"You do not appear in pain," Dumbledore tried again.

Dyre scowled, his previous stoicism prevalent once more. "I have learned to function through it."

Lucius frowned. "How? Do you participate in duels like these?"

Dyre looked uneasy but shrugged again, and again they waited for a shudder of pain that never came.

"There are usually a lot more," he eventually said.

"A lot more? A lot more duelists?" Lucius pressed adamantly.

Dyre finally had enough. Lily finished with his hand, and he backed away from them, extracting his distance. He turned his wrist expertly as he spoke.

"I serve during the classes sometimes."

"You mean a bunch of students gang up on you while the teacher eggs them on, perfecting their spells and their accuracy," Lucius snapped angrily. He had known where this was going the moment Dyre opened his mouth.

Dyre scowled at him. "I mean to say I am quicker and more cunning because I have had a lot of practice doing this sort of thing. This is what you wanted to know wasn't it?" he snapped, close to yelling. "That I won't keel over in the first round. Save your pity," he spat acridly. "I know how to take care of myself. I don't need a mother or a father to hold my hand and tell me it's alright."

"Harry," Lily tried. "I-"

"It's Dyre," he hissed, enraged. "Not Harry, not Harald, and certainly not your precious Harry Potter. He died," he said forcefully, piercing them with his hateful glare. "He died and I came back so next time you talk to me, talk to **me**. Not Harry fucking Potter!"

He stormed out, not waiting for their reactions. Lily covered her mouth on a sob.


	6. Death's Sweet Plaything

_Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray._

_Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

~ "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" by Dylan Thomas

Dyre did not appear at the wand weighing ceremony. How he managed to elude a marauder and Dumbledore was a mystery. Victor informed them that he had not returned to the ship but also warned that if Dyre did not wish to be found he would not. His bed remained made, his room untouched. Not even his clothes were taken.

For two weeks, James and Lily stood on pins and needles. The inheritance potion had come back. There was no need to review the result. Now with unquestionable proof, they could do little more than frame the damn thing on their mantel for all its use. Lucius had looked into the old laws. From the moment of Harry's 'death,' Karkaroff owned the boy. Or at least, the headmaster of Durmstrang did. It was blunt for a law. Karkaroff's claim on him was authentic.

They could purchase the boy, which Lucius had tried as soon as the potion came back, but it was in vain. Dyre had spoken truth. Karkaroff would not part from him.

It was a cold November day when Lupin, Sirius, James, Lucius, and Draco sat in the stands. The sky was cloudy grey, threatening rain. Thunder was in the distance. The champions and staff had been called to the tent, and they could only wonder if Dyre would appear.

Dragons. They had to fight dragons. Diggory was green about the face, but to his credit, his eyes were firm. Fleur was consulting one last time with her headmistress, her long hair tied in a thin strip down her back. The judges were debating the consequences of their missing champion, Dumbledore petitioning for only a few more minutes wait, when Dyre emerged from the entrance.

A photographer's flash greeted him. Dyre stoically ignored the woman in the purple suit with the alligator handbag trying to take his comment. Lily exhaled her breath in a loud puff. Without a word, Dyre joined his competition. Crouch held out the bag.

The Hungarian Horntail.

Severus cursed beneath his breath. Perhaps the boy truly was cursed. The miniature dragon spit fire on his palm. In his normal servant attire, Dyre hardly looked capable of facing a dragon with only his skin to protect him. He was to go last.

As the teachers trickled out, Lily hovered by the entrance, desiring just one word to her boy before he faced his probable death. Though she would never let that happen, contest be damned. Dyre looked up suddenly. His sparkling eye, tired but deep, met hers, echoing familiarity. In response to her distress, he offered a small smile. Lily's hand shook, and she moved to approach him. Dumbledore caught her shoulder, shaking his head towards Rita Skeeter in the corner.

The roar of the crowd could be heard outside the tent as Fleur battled for her golden egg. Diggory paced the room, running spells beneath his breath. Dyre sat on the infirmary beds lining the far side of the tent, placed in case of an emergency of course. The dragon sniffed out the boundary of his hand, its mace-like tail scraping his palm.

Dyre stared at it, wondering if his life was really worth his secrets.

"Hey," someone whispered behind him.

Dyre looked up, seeing no one but Diggory in his anxious fidgeting.

"Behind the curtain."

Dyre turned. A faint silhouette greeted him. The body touched the fabric so faintly that it could have been the wind.

Draco?

"Um, listen, I know you're pretty good at dueling but this is, um," the boy stammered, reminding him of Neville. "Can you do this, Dyre?" he eventually got out, worry coloring his words.

Dyre looked to the entrance, where a little beyond the curve another tent met him. Still, the great roar of fire and anxious shouting brushed the cloth. Stamping shook the ground. He thought about what he would have to give up to win, to survive. He turned back to the boy on the other side of the tent. He could see nothing of him but a hazy outline, but he could imagine so vividly the clear crystal eyes, like smoldering ash below yellow locks.

"Yes, I can."

The figure expelled a breath. "Ok," he said in complete trust. "I just… I just wanted to know. Even Victor was rather dubious about this."

"Tell him it would take more than this to fell one named after the Great Harold Wartooth."

"Alright," Draco said, and Dyre could hear the smile in it.

The boy lingered for a bit before finally leaving, not finding anything else to say. At least that's what Dyre thought before the curtain shifted and a hand scrambled to encompass his own through the slit. Dyre stared at it, the long fingers much smoother than his calloused, scarred ones. It retracted quickly.

"Ok, well, um. I guess I'll leave now."

Dyre chuckled softly, determined to show the world precisely why he should never be underestimated.

o.O.o

Lucius sat next to Karkaroff, who looked very pleased with this turn of events. His dark eyes held an ugly malice and he rubbed his hands together greedily. Lucius was disgusted. The elder Malfoy strongly believed the Dyre would come out of this alive. Watching him duel had been as grand as watching Dumbledore. He had no doubt that whatever secrets the boy held he would survive this.

He looked to his tense guard. James was chewing clean through his lip, his eyes horrified by the rocky course and single bolt of chain below them. Lily soon joined him, her eyes as frantic as his. She fingered the wand beneath her sleeve. Sirius and Lupin as well were terribly tense, their hands clinging to one another desperately. Dumbledore as well was showing signs of tension.

Severus sat beside him, glaring at Karkaroff. The dark man sent him an intense look but said nothing. His wand was laid in his lap, gripped loosely, though Lucius held no doubt to how alert the man was.

They watched Fleur struggle through the task, darting strategically between the rocky crags. She aimed exclusively for the beast's eyes, and they all wished they could tell Dyre to do the same. The creature was smart though and shielded itself with its clipped wings. Eventually, she constructed a decoy, managing to slip through in its distraction and grab the egg. It was well done, but she had taken up too much time.

Cedric's dragon was fiercer but not as smart. He was able to easily hit the creature's eyes. It roared, rearing back and stepping all over its prized eggs. Points were deducted for that. He shoulder was singed, the robes completely burnt, but he had a triumphant grin on his handsome face.

Next was Harry.

o.O.o

The sky was as grey as stone but teeming with life. The clouds rolled like the belly of a great beast. The barest sprinkle preceded the storm, lending dark dots to the stones around him. In the close stillness of the storm, everything was muted. His feet made no noise as he moved over loose stone. As he melted into the shadow of a nearby nook, the heavy crunch of a great weight pressed into the gravel. A single squat forearm appeared in the space of the crag. Fat talons the length of his thigh scraped the ground, smooth scales as hard as diamonds covering the bulging muscle of her limb. She sniffed the air, growling far above the reach of his gaze. The purple-grey of her scales was iridescent, murky as upset river silt and opaque. Only the great beasts of the heavens gave off such unnatural gleams.

Of course, the handlers did not know this. Did not know that they had a queen in the midst of peasantry, that they had chained a great sovereign of the skies. Her talons slid over the gravel, making deep indents on the ground. Four stubby legs graced the long body of the beast. She was low to the ground and sleek as a serpent, a great Wyrm of the Celtic isles. Her tail slid behind her lazily, like a cat. Her slit eyes, a large grey not unlike the Malfoy childe, were wise and cold as mountains, stung with the anger of her abasement. Smoke drawled lazily from her nostrils. She raised her muzzle in the air, sniffing the ozone-intensified air.

_Ihh can sssmell you, egg-thieffff_, she drawled, coating her coarse voice with the thick slur of feminine deception.

Dyre slid like a wraith among the rocks, making not sound, his grey attire making him uniform with the harsh stone.

_You hhhave nowhere to run. Nowhhhhere to esssscape. I will find you, egg-thiefff. Unborn killhher_.

She was staying close to her nest. Her nastily spiked tail curled around the eggs, the gold looking obscenely ostentatious among the grey. Her head turned, and Dyre just barely slid back into the shadow, pressing himself to the unyielding stone.

_I sssssmell your fear. Ihh will find you. Ihh will crussssssh you. Ihh will ssssavor the tassste of your flessssh in my belly_.

Dyre moved among the rocks, invisible even to his confused audience. He slid expertly along the back of an overhang, experienced with the rocky terrain of the Jötnar's Forest and the mountains drawn like silent sentinels around Durmstrang's mighty mead halls. His hand found purchase like a rat among the rocks, shifting seamlessly, belly to the ground.

_What fear do you ssssmell, Great Mother of the Wyrms?_ he asked, cupping his hands so his voice echoed across the wards.

She raised her head, intrigued while everyone else looked confused, standing in their seats to spot him. _Yhhou ssspeak the tongue of Greatssss? Why do you attack my unbornsss?_

_I do not, my lady_, Dyre said, hidden above the overhang. _One of your little onesss hasss been exchanged for a lie. I wasss tricked into coming here to take it back_.

_Tricked, you ssssay_, she said, searching him out among the rocks. _Not a clever hhhhuman_, she mocked in a wry hiss.

_And of you, my lady?_ Dyre asked, crawling forward. _You have been horribly missstreated here. You have been ssseparated from your unbornsss. You have been chained. They have cast ssspellss on you, tried to sssubdue what cannot be sssubdued, taken what can never be taken. Have you too not been sssubject to trickery and outrage_?

_Yessssss_, she hissed, hatred coiling her tongue. _I will ssssslay thhhem. Ihh will murder thhhhhem all! I will paint my belly withhh thhhheir blood! Thhey will know what it meansss to trap me hhhere!_

_Pleassse, my lady, Great Mother of all, will you not allow me to retrieve the lie amidssst your little onesss. I mean no harm to you or your kin. For they too wisssh to sssubdue in me what can never be sssubdued_.

She was silent in contemplation, low growls still accompanying her anger.

_Ssshow yourself to me, hhhhuman_.

Dyre was prepared for this. He flung himself off the overhang. His hand and foot found purchase on the shadow of the cliff, the rest of him visible for all to see. Shouts echoed from behind the barrier. Fingers pointed. Mouths gaped. Dyre did not turn to see the horrified expressions on his parents' faces as he revealed himself to the monster, hanging defenseless from the overhang. He had eyes only for the dragon.

She regarded him silently, her old eyes taking in everything about the shape of his face, the jagged lightening bolt scar, the green eye as brilliant and deep as the winter trees, and the white one, concealing much more than it impaired.

_Indeed thhhey hhhave, little one_, she said in a baritone roll. _It hasss been a long time sssssince I have ssseen thhhat eye or converssssed with one of Deathhhh'ssss playthhhingssss_.

_You honor me, Great Mother_, Dyre said respectfully, inclining his head.

_Yhhou tell me hhone of my unbornsss hasss been ssssstolen from me_, she said. _You pressssume muchhh to make sssuch a claim_.

_I mean no dissshonor. I wisssh only to leave you in peace_.

_In peasssce, you ssssay_, she said, eyes shining like hot coals. She rose up to an impressive height, her chest, with its light silver scales, massive and commanding. _My kind and I will have no peassssce while hhyou and your forefatherssss walk thissss earthhhh_.

Dyre did not like where this was going.

_Yhhou will to have my unborn? Are yhhou to be the knight to sssssslay me? Lie or not I will fight for thhhhose in my charge, little Deathhhhh. Hhave you the courage to fassssce me?_

Before Dyre had the chance to react, she was calling fire from her throat. Dyre watched it move from her belly up her esophagus to her narrowed mouth. Yet still he could not tell his hand to release the rock. The conversation had change so abruptly. The time he had to save himself was used up with his shock. As the pillar of fire ran towards him, slowly/quickly illuminating the shadow of the cliff, he could only watch his death approach him.

Salvation came not in the quick mindedness of the sixteen-year-old clinging to the rocks, but in a stroke of luck. The rock beneath his fingers broke. The stone crumbled, and Dyre was falling. His foot lost hold of the underside of the cliff, and he was airborne, moving through the wind and the impeding current of storms like an abandoned rag doll.

And the fire passed over his head.

Dyre hit the ground harshly, fracturing his arm. He rolled downward, cutting himself on stone. It tore through his clothes, dragging his flesh, surfacing flesh whorls of red. He felt it rub into his face, his shoulders, his legs until there did not seem to be a part of him not penetrated by rock and dirt.

Finally he stopped, landing in a broken lump in the ground at the dragon's feet. He felt the great sucking of air as she drew in oxygen to fuel the leathery muscle holding in the gases of her fire. In a whoosh her chest contracted. Dyre had seconds and this time, he did not let shock impede him.

He gained his feet smoothly despite his pain. Avoiding her talons, he skirted away into the rocks once more. Covered in blood and open sores and his arm fractured, his area for success and survival had gone down drastically. He moved quickly among the rocks as she roared, flinging out her tail to trap him in avalanches. He smeared his blood everywhere, making his scent hard to detect. He wiped the blood from his eyes, trying to find some advantage in this chaos.

The wards protecting the crowd simmered as debris struck the shield. She was sparing no reserve in this attack. She was testing him. She was goading him as she herself had been goaded. Dyre took sort of his surroundings, seeing the different escape routes, ambush points and concealing alcoves.

There. She had taken out nearly the whole cliff. It was slick with loose rocks, impossible for even a human like Dyre to maneuver on. It led right to her eggs, which were unguarded as she prodded the western side of the grounds.

What was one more secret really?

Dyre recalled the promise he had made Draco. To survive, which had somehow turned into to win.

Slowly and meticulously, Dyre got into position.

His arm ached with the bone fracture, and he hoped it still had enough strength to carry him. He favored the arm as he once more slid belly down over the rough stones. Dirt grinded into his many wounds. The dragon's fervid trampling shook the ground. Her roars shouted his cowardice. She thought he was mocking her in his silence.

She was getting angry.

Dyre braced himself on top of the tall pile of rubble and mutilated stone. The audience had not caught sight of him yet, watching the dragon upend half the course. Dyre closed his eyes and stood.

The transformation was slow without a wand to steady him, but Dyre hoped it was still fast enough to give him time. A shout from the stands heralded the crowd's attention. The subject of over four hundred avid stares did not deter him, could not deter him as the earth shook and trembled.

His torso shifted, elongating so that his hands met the ground with his feet. His center of gravity lowered itself. His neck lengthened. His robes turned to short course fur, thick and puffy on his chest. His five fingers moved together, turned hard and black. His many cuts revealed themselves on his pelt. His head grew heavy with the weight of bone. His blood mixed darkly with his black hide, his body much thicker than his surefooted father. Broad shoulders, straight and proud, crested his head, framed by the tall crooked limbs of his antlers. A wreath of white fur choked the black hart's thick throat.

There was little similarity between this proud beast and the nimble boy darting between the crevices of the course. Save only in the long jagged streak slicing his long face in half. The milky white of his blind eye was no different than when it had laid inside a human. His other eye was pitch, round and equine.

All of a second did he stand still, grounding himself from the vibrations of the change, before he darted down the hill. The rock moved with him, sliding, but his agile legs vaulting onward, heedless on his shaky ground. He was shift and sure, heeded by the long stretch of his bone grey antlers.

As the crowd watched in shock, entranced, the dragon caught sight of him. Realization colored her deep eyes. She tried to turn, tried to call in the air needed to belch out a great pillar of heat, but her back was to him, and what was smooth in the air was too ungainly on earth. Still she tried, opening her great maw wide to spew forth flames.

Dyre vaulted and changed midair. It was quicker the second time. Only his upper half fully human, he twisted. The fire blistered his back but his hands reached the egg. They slid over gold, plucking it from the nest. By the time he hit the ground, shoulder impacting brutally in his effort to cradle the egg, he was once more fully human.

The handlers were running out. Mission completed, they struggled to stun her. As Dyre watched, he knew. He knew that her pride was too strong, her will too resilient to let it end like this. Perhaps if the handlers had stayed back, if they had allowed him to bow his head to her, thank her for the honor of battle, things might have ended differently.

But there was no use in pursuing what-ifs. The fact of the matter was that this magnificent beast, who was jaded and mocked and degraded, had set her hungry eyes on Dyre, and the handlers could not subdue a queen.

When she broke the chain, Dyre had already slipped the egg into his uniform and was morphing again. The break of metal seemed to echo in his ears. His body was sore and exhausted from blood loss. Still, he was skipping over fire, ducking as he tried desperately to avoid her ire. Without that chain to crowd her, he was cornered here. He barely made it before debris closed over the exit. He sprinted through the tents, passed the stunned faces of the other two contestants, hearing her roar in outrage behind him.

Other than his serpent tongue, he had no guiles against the beast. So he ran. People were running outside the tents, incoherent screams playing undertone to the heavy howling of the dragon. Dyre turned his head, horrified to realize that she had somehow managed to gain the air. A lone black deer in a flood of students, she spotted him immediately. With a steady, overwhelming bawdy keen, she dove for him.

Dyre ran again, his foreleg trembling dangerously with the strain. Everything was in chaos. There were children here, children who were running like headless chickens in the fray, too stupid to take shelter or heed the adults trying to herd them in the castle.

Dyre could not stay here. He ran towards the forest, hoping that the trees would yield him some shelter. He could only hope she would have enough respect not to scorch the ancient wood. The mighty flapping of her wings drowned out the thunder. As Dyre was pursued, fire making him skid to the right, the heavens unleashed its bowels. The light drizzle that had marked its coming yielded to a maelstrom.

Dyre ran on, blood frothing from his muzzle. The shouts were growing dimmer. Behind him, he could not hear his family, accompanied by so many others, weaving magical nets to drag the dragon down. He could not hear the Great Mother's agonized scream as her prey was carried from her, did not feel the ground shake with her struggles as she was finally bored down.

All Dyre saw was the forest, the blessed darkness that had given him shelter for these past weeks. The limbs reaching out in welcome to him, the coldness in the rain and in his limbs bearing him further and further away from the castle. Even when he passed the boundary of the forest, Dyre did not stop running, the fire following him turning somehow into a green curse.

o.O.o

"Dy-re! Dyyyyyyy-reeeeeeeee!"

Shouts and touches pocked the forests. The altruistic smear of phoenix fire stood out in the backdrop of rain and dense wood. The calls echoed, overlapping so that not once did the boy's name not serenade the night.

James raised a hand to his mouth, calling out again. The torch in his hand flickered, cracking. The entire Hogwarts staff was in the forest. Roughly half the students had forsaken their dinner to search for the lad, young voices lending strength to the coarse calls of the adults. Severus shouted out beside him, cursing the lad as he yelled. Moving into the darkness, the torches stood out like will o' wisps. Navigation spells were skewed by the intense magical concentration of the woods, even the magnetic pull of compass charms spinning wildly.

"Dy-re!" he shouted again, his throat having long turned hoarse. Rain hit the back of his hand, dripping from the trees.

Even now, James wasn't sure whether he should be looking for a buck or a boy. The black beast, standing like a symbol for glory, above the rocky crag had been one of the most magnificent things James had ever seen. Its bulk was thicker than James' slender roe stag. The antlers were masculine grey, formidable in their wiry strength, sharp and long. The white frock that coated his front lent him a proud potency.

It had only been for a moment before Dyre had sped like lightning, vaulting over jagged boulders, but the crowd had been mesmerized by this tall beast challenging a dragon the same way it would a rogue hound. Karkaroff's jaw had dropped.

It was surprising enough that he could speak to dragons.

"Dyyyyy-reeeeee!" he called, met only with echoes.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Lucius looked down at him, the touch lending a strange hollow grace to his sharp face. His lovely hair was plastered to his face by the rain and the drying spell on his clothes was wearing thin.

"We'll find him, James," Lucius promised.

James nodded, not wanting to waste his voice on anything other than his son's name.

"James!" Lily shouted, struggling through the low limbs and bushes to reach him. James ran to meet her, steadying her by her elbow as she huffed.

"What is it? Have you found him?"

She panted. "There… is a trail of blood. It might… be his."

Lucius and Severus went with him, guided by Lily, who did not lack for pace despite her exhaustion. Sirius, Lupin, and Dumbledore were hunched over a broken branch. The forest was littered with them, softened by dead leaves and pine straw. The rain was making it difficult for Lupin to track a scent as well. However, this branch was sprayed with blood, and Lupin could clearly tell that it was Dyre's.

"Father!" Draco shouted, accompanied by Victor. "Did you find something?" he asked, his young grey eyes hopeful.

"Perhaps," Lucius allowed.

The nine of them cluttered around the branch like it was the breath of the world.

"Well, he went this way several hours ago," Severus said. "At least we have a trail."

"Yes, my boy," Dumbledore agreed. "Shall we?"

He didn't need to ask. Already they were rushing ahead, desperation fueling their speed. Shouts of "Dyre!" heralded the night.


	7. Fragility

_Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,_

_ And tremulously gentle her small hand_

_Withdrew itself from his, but left behind_

_ A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland_

_And slight, so very slight that to the mind_

_ 'Twas but a doubt_

~ Don Juan, I. 71

Dyre awoke to pain. This was not unusual. What was unusual was the body in which he had chosen to suffer this agony. He could feel his antlers tangling in the underbrush, his hind legs thick with lead. His diaphragm heaved with his breathing, which was wet and throaty. His tongue lolled from his mouth, tasting the dirt on the leaves beneath him. His front leg was marred beyond use.

He laid his head back. It felt much too heavy. Heat swarmed his chest and neck while cold invaded him limbs. Unable to control himself, he let out a long baritone mewl, an animalistic call for help. Even before he finished, he surrendered to the fact that there was nobody to find him here, no one that would sit beside him in this awful pain, cool his sweaty, blood-soaked flank and wrap his mangled leg in bandages.

Yrsa's gentle hands came to mind. He remembered how she would puff the soft fur on his chest and smooth the burs from his pelt. He remembered her small body astride his back, a firm grip on his antlers as together they pranced about the inner sanctum, heedless to the acolytes trying to tame their wild play.

He remembered the Maiden running her fingers over the coolness of his ears, scratching the unreachable place at his throat.

Blood dripped from his nose, mixing with the light sprinkle of rain that filtered through the canopy. The ache in his chest would not subside. It mixed with the coldness and his fever, making his head unbearably muddy.

Still, he never believed he would die here. For all the things he had survived, the destiny he felt pressing in on him at all sides – fate hanging like a noose over his head – he knew this was neither the time nor place for him to rest.

It was a curious thing to see how the Norns would save him. It was strange – the absolute belief that no one would save him and the knowledge that he could not die. Not yet. It left only himself, too sick and injured to move.

He wondered what Draco would think of his lie.

It was only a passing thought, slipping through the grey dense mass of his muddled head. It seemed to echo, growing more silent as he slowly succumbed to his fever, until it ended in a sibilant hiss not unlike the whisper of leaves clinging to a dying limb. Eventually, even that final thought drifted into darkness.

o.O.o

"If you wish to survive, Harry Potter," a voice said, low and comfortable in the middle of the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. "Then you must wake."

Dyre was flirting between worlds. He could only vaguely recognize a voice besieging him through the thick mist of sweaty murk. He heard the words. He knew someone, something, was talking, words were forming, a mouth was moving, but he couldn't understand.

"Change back, Harry Potter."

A name. That name. It meant something, something that wasn't him. But was. The voice wouldn't let him rest.

"You must change back," it said more adamantly, moving to raise his throbbing head.

A hand was at his neck. His skull was too heavy, too fill of black shit, and it flopped back from the grip, his antlers weighing him down. His throat was swollen and burned. He wanted water. He wanted water. He was thirsty.

He felt the change taking place from a long way away. It was slow, slower even than when he stood before the dragon with time against him. The strangling weight of his antlers reduced to uneven stubs. The fingers on his right hand spread out into five. His body shortened, the neck sliding back into a straight spine. Only parts of his attire survived the transformation, but it was enough so that the egg, the golden egg that was the crux of all this grief, dropped onto the forest floor. Most of the fabric remained part of his flesh, coated in short coarse hair. At last, his face became human, muzzle rescinding to blue lips, sweaty and sallow.

His malformation was indecent. Uneven muscles whined, the organs only shifting partway so that they took up too much space, wrestling for room inside him. His human skin, sensitive from the change, was rubbed raw by the mix of cloth and fur, fusing strangely.

He threw up. The thin pink-pastel ooze was dotted with vegetables but otherwise insubstantial. Whenever he breathed, he felt unequally sized, liquid-filled lungs pushing against small human ribs. There wasn't enough space in him. Breath was painful, cutting off before he could get his fill. His heart was being pressed against. He felt like he was choking, being pulled out, and stabbed at the same time. Every movement pulled at muscles that were not properly interlaced. He wheezed. His chest rattled.

He kicked out with his hind legs, still deer, struggling between stretching out and bunching up into an inflexible ball. He screamed as he was lifted. It was gurgled and maimed by his ruined throat and lungs. He was pressed to a warm chest, hairy and bare. An arm cradled his hind legs as it bent once more to retrieve his egg.

Dyre wanted to tell it to just leave it. It was worthless. It was too bright for the darkness around them.

"Hold on, Harry Potter."

For a moment, Dyre felt like a child again, having fallen out of the tree in the courtyard. He was clinging to the Maiden's neck, sobbing into her silver hair.

"Hold on, my Dyre. Everything will be ok," she had said in that sweet voice, a voice like sunlight.

"Ok," Dyre said to the blurry head above him (though it came out as Ohg-grie), a faint trusting smile making its way through the pain.

His human hand crawled upward, curling around the creature's neck. He let the heartbeat, like a soft thrum though a thick drum, lull him into a world that had long been torn from him. This waking dream was damned, but though Dyre knew that, the allure of that time, that sweet memory, was too much to bear.

Dyre Durmstrang moved through the forest. Trees whipped by him like the wind.

o.O.o

Lupin headed the hunt, his inhuman senses lending only little support in the wet wood. His speed carried him before the others but he forced to pace himself, terrified that the weak scent of Harry's blood was going to fade in the rain.

He could hear the others behind him, hurtling fallen limbs and uprooting bushes. Dumbledore in his old age had no trouble keeping pace with his comrades, his wrinkled face keen with determination. Like an oak, his age lent him only strength.

Victor was having the most trouble. His lame leg struggled to match them, but the bullheaded resolve on his broken face demanded no pity. Sweat dripped from him, and his mouth was twisted in pain and effort, his hand clenching the straining muscles in his thigh. Still, he ran with them, his wand arching out with every step to carry the weight of his twisted limb.

Soon, Sirius transformed to Padfoot, taking place beside him. His black body was slick with the darkness of the forest. The blue eyes of the hellhound stalked the wood, paws landing almost without sound over the ground. The cries of the other searchers had long died away.

"Wait," Lupin called.

Padfoot sped ahead, coming to circle around beside him while the others came to a stop behind him. They were panting, sides heaving, clothes and hair clinging to them. Even the impressive Malfoy men were outdone with exertion.

"What is it?" Lily asked, holding a stitch in her side, her green eyes squeezed shut.

"Something is coming," Lupin said.

The creature was sprinting through the forest with little regard for secrecy on a headlong course for their party. Dumbledore stood before them, his long robes moving the leaves of the floor. He was less flushed than the others, the quiver in his limbs less visible. His wand was in his hand, though relaxed.

Soon, a long figure shot through the trees. As it spotted them, it pulled up. His equine body cantered, thick hooves clopping. They immediately recognized him.

"Firenze," Dumbledore said, both as a greeting and in relief.

Their eyes were soon drawn to the mutilated figure with his arm slung over his neck. Harry was cradled in the centaur's arms. His breath came out in wet, painful gasps. One short stub and a longer two-branched antler grew from his black hair and his fractured arm was still a forelimb. His chest was only half covered by his usual grey uniform. Part adhered to his flesh, mixing into a black pelt. His legs were completely deer. The golden egg rested in his lap.

"Harry!" several people cried out, moving to swarm him.

Firenze backed away, his tail flicking irritably. Harry swallowed a scream, his face a mess of ugly sickness and pain.

"He needs medical attention immediately," Firenze said, his arm still fitted around the boy.

"The castle," Lily said.

Firenze nodded and took off, his long legs making great leaps over the dense floor.

"I'll follow," Lupin said and was gone as well, Padfoot joining as well.

"I shall inform the others to stop the search," Dumbledore said, his wand moving in the intricate pattern of a spell. "I suggest the rest of you attend Madam Pomfrey."

Lily and James had already left, tailing the other two marauders. Draco, Severus, Lucius, and Victor nodded. Severus, who was most acquainted with the forest from his herb gathering, led them out. Victor was forced to rest against the trees several times before Draco convinced him to borrow his shoulder. It was with a much more sedate pace that they gained the castle, though not for lack of resolution.

Once they broached the edge of the forest, Severus rushed ahead to lend his potion expertise. After a quick conversation with his son, Lucius walked ahead as well. The two boys struggled to gain the steps of the magnificent castle.

"You should go ahead," Victor said, his voice tight.

His arm was slung over Draco's shoulder. The blonde had a grip both on the taller boy's waist and wrist. He tugged him along, relying on Victor's uninjured leg to move them along.

"Don't… be stupid," the boy panted. "I'd only get in the way… anyway."

He readjusted his grip, hunching over to take the next step. His legs screamed at him. His chest ached with running. However, though Draco was hardly used to this manner of grueling physical stress, he was more concerned with Dyre's injuries.

He had never seen such a botched transformation. He had seen satyrs before. Crafty Pans with their flutes luring women to the glens, they were quick to take your dignity and disappear between the glades. Dyre had been nothing like them. His muscles did not flow smoothly, bulging painfully in places. His skin had been a mass of bruises where the blood could not circulate properly. His chest had been stretched, a great yellowing mass with contusions and ruptures. It had not been pretty.

And his arm… His hoof had been set off at an odd angle, an impossible angle. Half the forearm had been bent towards his chest. The bone had shown white and crooked, rising like an ivory post through the rest of his arm. It was grotesque.

They had finally reached the infirmary and were alarmed to see that most of the people who had run ahead were standing outside the doors, biting nails and pacing. Draco rested Victor against a wall, moving to talk to his father. Firenze was still in the hall, his hooves shedding mud onto the stone as he spoke with Lupin. Sirius was still in his dog form, lying on his paws as he stared morosely at the door.

"What's going on?" Draco asked.

"His condition is serious," his father said brusquely. "They think he might have contracted pneumonia on top of his external injuries and mal-transformation."

"But they can fix him, can't they?" Draco asked anxiously.

Lucius looked pained, his gaze wandering to where Lily and James had collapsed in each other's arms.

"I don't know, Draco."

Draco looked down at the floor. Dyre had to make it. He just had to.

The doors opened. Everyone stood to attention, not speaking a word. There was blood on her white apron. It coated it. There was too much. There was much too much. Pomfrey wiped her hands on a towel as she spoke.

"He's in critical condition," she said gravely. "I've never dealt with this type of mutation before. I can't – I don't know how to help him. However," she said before anyone could speak. "Narcissa might be able to help. She was studying animagi transformations for her thesis before she was interrupted. I don't know anybody else who could get here in time."

"How long does he have?" James asked as Lucius literally ran to retrieve his wife.

"His heart was crushed under the pressure," Pomfrey said. "Severus is compensating for the blood flow as best he can but he only has a few hours before his body gives out or the pneumonia takes him."

The door was suddenly wrenched back, revealing a blood soaked Professor Snape. His eyes were wide and frantic.

"Poppy!" he shouted. "It's growing back!"

She blinked then ran inside. Forgoing closing the door, the others crowded in behind her. Dyre was lain out on the bed. Blood covered his mutilated body in swathes and his chest was open, revealing all of the organs clambering for room. As they watched, his heart, which was little more than a crushed clump of meat, was reforming itself. The veins were realigning themselves. The blood was crawling back into his chest. Poppy and Severus started as even the splatters on their clothes were drawn from them. Dyre's eyes flickered.

"What is happening?" James whispered, his eyes drawn to his son's terrible chest.

The heart was finished. It hung between the over inflated lungs. It gave a single beat, and Dyre breathed again. They watched as the lungs pressed against the heart again, restricting its flow, returning to awful painful beating that had caused it to be crushed in the first place. Dyre was breathing laboriously, mouth open to gasp and eyes closed in pain. His fingers clenched and released, unsatisfied. The deer legs kicked. His body shuddered. The awful rattling of death's last throes crawled from his throat.

Lily leaned over and threw up. The sick hit the floor with a wet slap. The acrid smell met Draco's nose, and he too ran to empty his stomach in a bedpan.

The doors opened again, and Draco's mother swept inside. Her nightwear was crumpled from her sleeping, her hair was meshed in a collapsed braid, but there was spirit in her blue eyes. She regarded Dyre with quick assessment. She paled, a look of terror pervading her face before she drove all emotion out. She rolled up her sleeves.

"Anyone who isn't going to lend magic or fetch bandages and water is going to leave now."

No one left.

Narcissa launched into a tirade. Her voice was sharp as she ordered them about. She demanded Severus and Poppy by her side, motioning them to press their magic on Dyre's inflated lungs. They knew enough of anatomy to form them back into human, moving as instructed to his pancreas and liver. Dyre coughed blood, squirming with the indignant sensation of their hands on his organs. Draco wiped the blood away.

Narcissa had to do most of the transfiguration herself. Lucius lent her magic until his own stores were depleted. He was replaced by James, then Sirius. Draco replaced Severus' reserves and Lily began to channel magic into Poppy. It was grueling and several times the organs collapsed, prompting a round of cursing and fresh regeneration. Slowly, Dyre's movements began to calm. His breathing was still stricken with illness, but his heart was beating unhindered and his limbs and muscles had been returned to normal.

His left arm caused quite a bit of problem. Eventually, they had to settle for shifting it broken and healing it afterwards. Dyre screamed as Sirius, James, Victor, and Draco held him down and Lupin and Lucius struggled to keep his arm still. By the time they were done, they were all covered in blood and sweat.

Dyre's fever had not abated. If anything, it had gotten worse, but his insides were fixed. Lily lifted her son's head, slipping water passed his lips. Narcissa abandoned Dyre to Poppy, collapsing in her husband's lap, slapping blood on his expensive robes. Lucius ran his hand softly over her tangled hair, trying to get her to sleep.

Dumbledore had stopped by at several points to stand watch beside Victor, who remained stoic throughout the whole ordeal, his eyes never shifting. Draco stood opposite Lily and James, watching Dyre's shallow breathing. Severus brushed beside him, moving to pour three potions into his open mouth.

The tension leaked from his body, and he collapsed on the sheets. It was such a relief to see him without pain that Draco nearly cried. He wanted nothing more than to lie out on the stone floor with the discarded bandages and water spills, stretch his limbs over the cool stone and sleep.

No one spoke.

No one had noticed that day had descended upon them. Sunlight rained through the windows, casting shadows to their ugly bruised faces. The infirmary had been closed to all, students redirected by Dumbledore. Slowly, Pomfrey began to clean her station. She scuttled back and forth between her office and the bed, the only sound the soft clopping of her shoes. Eventually, Dumbledore moved to assist her. Everyone else was still, both shocked and exhausted by the level of chaos and inhumane suffering that had just taken place.

When an owl landed on the windowsill in broad daylight, no one reacted to it. Not even when the small burrowing owl hopped onto Dyre's bed and began nipping at his dark hair. The owl roosted down at his shoulder, burrowing between his neck and the pillow.

They were too exhausted to do anything more than watch his peaceful breathing, thankful beyond measure for such a simple thing as his chest rising and falling in easy motion.


	8. A Sleeping Face

_Unlike the bright shadowless light of noon, it was a whiteness wrapped in tatters, amid soiled, unsightly, dusty quilts: and drew me to it all the more… Her face, too radiant and kaleidoscopic by day, now wore a mysterious cast, a melancholy frown, like that of one who's just swallowed bitter medicine, or of one who's been strangled. I loved her sleeping face_.

~ Naomi by Tanizaki Junichiro

Dyre did not sleep for long, at least not as long as everybody wanted. Only a few hours after that horrible incident, his eyes flickered open, defying both logic and Severus' well-crafted sleeping draft. He coughed red phlegm.

Pomfrey was beside him immediately, helping him lean up to expel the thick contents of his lungs. They had left the antler stubs on his head. They were not causing overt damage to his cranium, and they had so many other places demanding their resources. Dyre fell back on the bed. They had expected him to fall back into slumber, but his eyes had opened, staring despondently up at the ceiling as he struggled to breath.

His arm had been bandaged and set. It lied limply beside him, the skin slowly fusing itself as the bone knitted back into place. The covers lied across his bare chest, lined with rail track scars and yellow patches of fading bruising. The cut that had split him open was invisible.

Those eyes were immovable, older than the world it seemed. Heavy shadows marked his pale face. It was obvious that sickness clung to him. His coloring was a ghastly green and slimy with foul-smelling sweat. He coughed again. It was Lily who moved this time. In silence, she offered him the glass of water, but his eyes did not take her in.

His mouth moved again, and they understood that he was trying to speak. Lily rested her hand on his thin chest, but words could not make their way past her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears. She bowed her head, her copper hair making a curtain around her face.

"May…" Dyre said, his voice a horrible imitation of his heavy, Nordic lilt. "… I… stay here… for a bit?"

They stared at him, none of them able to speak. That he should even have to ask… As if he had the strength to leave…

"O-of course, Har – Dyre," Lily said, her hand on his and her eyes filled with remorse. "Just rest, alright. Just please. Rest."

He nodded, closing his eyes.

The day carried on into night. His sleep was filled with coughing. The small reprieve that Severus' potions lent him did not last the hours. His skin was clammy. He wheezed and spat up thick fluid. His eyes did not open again.

Victor left the infirmary only once. Draco did not know what he did, but he suspected it had something to do with Karkaroff. When he returned, he did not leave again. He offered no solace, deigning neither to speak to nor touch his countryman.

Lily and James both shirked their duties, James to Lucius and Lily to Dumbledore. Sirius lost his job, not that he seemed to care. Harry was his godchild after all. His happy wit and clumsy hands had no room in the infirmary, and with Lily and Pomfrey tending to him, he had little responsibility to the dark child. Still, he remained a sentinel at the foot of the bed, his dog form giving warmth to Dyre's feet as he shivered in the night.

Lupin rushed back to the ministry, requesting temporary leave. He made some excuse of a fake relative on his sickbed, picked up his papers and potions, and fled the offices. He worked diligently on potions with Severus, restocking the stores that Dyre had depleted and creating the ones that would hopefully lead to the boy's health.

Draco was perhaps the most surprising of them all. After his father had deposited his exhausted mother to his rooms in the castle, Lucius had returned to inquire what he wanted to do. Draco didn't know. He didn't know why he was here. He had a small kiss stolen from the back of his hand, a single glance, not even a full moment, and a hand clenched in his between the curtains of a tent – they were such little things, things he had never before measured with any worth.

He had told his father that he would stay. He didn't know why, how his entire world had seemed to suddenly shift towards this stranger. But he was unable to leave, unable to want to.

It was only on the third night that Dyre's fever finally broke. Dyre had turned his head, the wet cloth Lily had placed upon him sliding to the pillow. His eyes opened. The ever present blindness of his left eye was prevalent, the green buried in the tome of the pillow. Still, it seemed to focus, like the glassy stare of a dead crow, on Victor Krum. The Bulgarian lord was sitting in patient silence on the edge of the bed, his harsh unwavering gaze stoic and unreadable.

"Victor?" that blind eye seemed to recognize.

His voice was thick and weak. It was strange to see weakness in him, peculiar, even after witnessing the overwhelming fragility of his body, to imagine him as anything other than a pillar of stubborn strength.

"Yrsa?" he asked of him, wetting his mouth with his dry tongue.

Victor shook his head. "You are in the Hogwarts infirmary."

"What happened?"

Lily helped lift him up. Dyre accepted her assistance silently, sipping water slowly.

"You ran into the forest," Victor said as she maneuvered him on the bed. "Your leg gave out, and you collapsed. On top of a fever, you only managed to slightly regain your human form."

Dyre nodded as he was set back among the pillows. "Firenze?"

They blinked, not aware that he knew the centaur.

Victor nodded. "You crushed your heart. However, the Norns saw fit to extend your time here. These people saw you to health."

"They nursed me?" Dyre said in surprise, looking around the large number of people that scattered the infirmary.

"They did."

Dyre swallowed. "The dragon?"

"She will most likely have to be put down," James answered.

He closed his eyes, looking pained. He said nothing. Lily ran her hand over his dirty forehead, smoothing back his bangs.

"Sleep, Dyre," she said softly, trying to coax him deeper into the pillows.

Dyre offered little resistance, exhausted even by these few moments of coherence. He expelled his breath, the rattle in his chest not nearly as prominent as it had been. As he succumbed to sleep, his voice entreated one last time upon the land of the living. It was a child's voice, peculiar in his perpetually stubborn pride.

The words were rough and enchanted. They fled into the stillness of the night air in a single breath. Lily leaned forward to catch them but received no more luck than Victor. Dyre was speaking in a language none of them could understand. When no one responded, Dyre added a single syllable, like a question but even that small thing was lost in translation.

Dyre fell to slumber.

o.O.o

When Draco returned the next morning at six o'clock, sleep still in his eyes and a yawn curling his tongue, he was shocked to walk into the infirmary and see Dyre awake in his bed. The boy was braced on a multitude of pillows, his hands in his lap and those odd antlers that they had never rid him of finally gone. He was facing the window, the burrowing owl perched inside its feathers on his shoulder. Dyre had allowed the door to be in his blind spot, and Draco wondered if the boy knew he was there.

Still, he straightened his wrinkled clothes, working to rub the sleep from his face and wishing he had taken more time with his appearance. His boots made light noise over the stone as he approached, wondering where the ever-present Potters and his miscellaneous uncles were. It seemed as if Dyre was alone.

As he approached, Draco took a moment to regard him. The scar that crossed his face was not so disfiguring. It lent him a cruel beauty. His skin was still sallow with sickness but pale not unlike Draco's porcelain whiteness. His dark, dark hair was roguish and unkempt, giving him the look of a savage belied by the intellect in his eyes and his proud figure. At sixteen, his jaw was firm, firmer than James, and Draco suspected that if he had not been malnourished, he would be quite broad as well. As it were, his shoulders retained a slender shape that was not on his animagus.

That was another thing. Though everyone's questions had been staved by the boy's brush with death, no one could deny that they weren't dying of curiosity. While his animagus was outstanding (not to mention that the semblance to Prongs was beyond uncanny), his ability to speak to dragons was something none of them could even comprehend.

What other talents lay beneath his servant attire?

As Draco watched him, his mind awhirl, Dyre did not acknowledge him. He remained stoically surveying the sky beyond the window. It was a bright November morning, the sky a wide encompassing blue, cloudless from the aftermath of the last storm, and stunning in its brilliance. Dyre did not seem quite as transfixed by it as such pure and pleasant days usually demanded. His stare was far away, catching something seemingly beyond the sky. His expression was closed and cold, his lips a single unbent line. His lowered brows were the only indication of his intense thought.

Draco rounded the bed, careful not to bump the frame. He held his hands behind his back, leaning in to try to see more of his face without actually getting in his view. Dyre had a strong silhouette, a profile that would not look out of place on an etiquette school poster. His posture was strict and straight, unusual for a servant. But what about Dyre wasn't unusual?

When Dyre still did not seem capable of acknowledging him and Draco was starting to feel awkward, he coughed, straightening himself out of his silly leaning.

"Um, how are you feeling?" Draco asked uncertainly.

"I am quite well," Dyre responded in a subdued tone, oddly formal. Neither his expression nor his posture changed. There was a strange heaviness to his tone. Something that made the boy seem very sad, though there was certainly no sadness in his answer.

"Oh, that's… good," Draco said, fumbling with both his words and his emotions. Consequentially, he ended up blurting his next thought aloud. "Where is everybody?"

"I requested some time alone."

"Oh," Draco said. He blushed, guilt pervading everything else as he started backing away towards the door. "Sorry. I didn't know."

Dyre turned to him. That gaze, so powerful in its stillness, settled upon him. The mismatched eyes, each carrying some sentient secret caught his stare. He stopped retreating, not from any conscious effort but just because that stare bade his full attention with such depth that he could not move.

The green eye, always faster, turned curious. It reminded Draco of his mother's cat. With the change, it seemed to become softer, more approachable than its brother, which was as unmovable as a lizard's. Or a spider's, Draco thought uncomfortably.

Dyre was thinking. It had possibly only been ten minutes when the others had left. His request, spoken with as much respect as he could muster, had unexpectedly been taken to heed. They seemed overly quick to please him, which Dyre was certainly not accustomed to. It was overwhelming enough to consider that they had stayed by his side this whole time, fetching towels for his sweat-soaked body, potions for his fever, and bedpans for the thick syrupy spittle that leaked from his lungs.

It was uncomfortable considering how much he owed them. He had so little left to give.

Still, his vulnerable, awkward plea had given him some reprieve, enough to watch the lingering sunrise stretch into a blue sky. Then, Draco had come to him. In the stillness of the infirmary, it was easy to make out his hesitant fumbling and his shock at seeing him so recovered.

Though, recovered seemed to be a relative term. His body felt miserably weak and unclean. However, he knew it would be much worse had his curse not defended his life. He knew also that they would want answers from him. Some he knew would be unanswerable. Others, though it would cost him dearly to recount, could be given in the great magnitude of his boon to them.

He was surprised when the young lord approached him. He could feel the uncertainty in his footsteps. Then, curiously he did not immediately launch into questions but watched him. His inquisitive face peeked out from his peripheral vision, child-like and innocent in his interest. It shocked Dyre how innocent he seemed. Spoiled as sin, wrapped in his trim uniform and with his smooth hands, but with the strange sweetness of mint, fresh and clean in its luxury.

The boy's hair was a halo. It fell so softly. Though he most often saw it slicked back, it was now free and full. Its curls lent him a boyish glow. His face was as sharp as his father's, lean and aristocratic with adolescent pride. The clarity in his grey-blue eyes was refreshing. Everything about him seemed untainted by the world.

Clean while Dyre was dirty.

Now with his clumsy bashfulness, Dyre could not help admiring the rosy color that his blush brought to Draco's cheeks. The squirming of his gaze, the worrying of his lower lip between his teeth, his hands fisting and unclenching in the hem of his sweater – it all seem so remarkably innocent. And when that gaze finally met his, Dyre was filled with that purifying beauty, like a dive into the Crystal Lake in the depth of winter.

"Did you wish to ask something of me, my lord?" Dyre asked, curious as to why the boy was so invested in someone like him.

"No, I – I've just been coming up here. I didn't think you'd be awake yet." Or alone, he seemed to add.

Dyre's eyes widened as he realized that this lord had been caring for him as well. A pleasant warmth settled in his chest, filling him like the heady flavor of mead. Then, reality struck him, and he realized that he owed this boy something of his self as well.

"Dyre?" Draco called, seeing his face fall.

Dyre looked up, wiping his emotion away.

"Do you want me to leave?" Draco asked.

Surprising even himself, Dyre shook his head. "I do not mind your company."

What was he saying? He was dangerous. He shouldn't be letting anyone, especially someone like Draco, near him. But the boy smiled. Wringing his hands, he sat on the edge of the bed next to him.

"Are you really alright?" he asked suddenly. "I mean, your injuries – and your sickness – it is surprising that you survived. Everyone thinks so."

"I doubt Master Krum thinks that," Dyre said, picturing the roguish Bulgarian in his mind.

Draco's brow crinkled. "He was worried. He didn't leave the infirmary either. I think he was afraid you were going to die too."

Dyre's eyes widened. Even Victor… It had been that bad?

"I'm sorry," Draco said. "I didn't mean to insult you."

"I am not insulted," Dyre responded, his uneven gaze centered on the boy across from him. "Lord Krum knows better than most how difficult it is to kill one such as myself."

"What do you mean?" Draco asked, thinking that something of the mystery that shrouded this boy might be revealed.

Dyre eyed him wryly. Draco blushed, embarrassed by his eagerness. Still, he did not retract his words, his gaze focused on Dyre's. Dyre held his gaze for a moment longer before smiling softly.

"It is nice, my lord, how you can hold my eye."

Draco blinked. "You mean the scar?" he asked, pointed to his own unmarred face.

Dyre laughed. It was a quiet laugh, surprisingly gentle.

"Aye," he said. "I mean my scar."

"It's not that bad," Draco said, not sure if he was being made fun of. He gave a teasing smile. "Kind of devil-may-care."

Dyre stared at him and his shining grin. The boy did not respond, and Draco grew quiet. He looked down at the bedding, his gaze wandering to his right hand.

"Why did you kiss me?" he asked suddenly.

Dyre was silent for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to read the emotion in his voice.

"I have no other reason than that I wanted to," he said at length.

Draco looked up at him, his eyes wide.

"I apologize if I offended you," Dyre continued.

Draco shook his head. "No, it was – I wasn't offended," he settled for saying.

Dyre smiled again, somehow displaying such simple honesty in his gaze that Draco was slightly blinded by it.

"I am glad."

"Yeah," Draco murmured. "Me too."

Dyre laughed again. Soon however, his rare gaiety turned into a hacking cough. Draco started forward, resting his hand on his hot back. Dyre coughed violently into his hand. Draco rubbed circles onto his back until he calmed, only realizing after Dyre had stopped that he had half crawled into the bed to assist him.

"Um."

It was at that moment that the infirmary doors open. Dumbledore was the first person they saw, his blue eyes sparkling happily at the both of them. However, the first to enter the room was not the elderly wizard but a large black dog. The shaggy beast, blue eyes glacial and happy, easily pushed Draco aside. Its dirty paws muddied the bed as it reached up and proceeded to lick Dyre's face.

The boy gave a muted cry of surprise, too weak to fend the beast off. The rough tongue slicked cold drool on his cheek, a cold nose nuzzling his chin. Dyre remained still in shock.

"Padfoot!" someone shouted, and the dog was hauled off of him.

Dyre immediately recognized the werewolf. His golden eyes were soft and malleable as gold. Thin scars coated his face, barely visible. There were crow's feet around his weary gaze, yet still there pervaded a happy glow in his whiskey stare. Premature grey hairs streaked his brown hair, but overall, he was very handsome.

"I'm sorry," the werewolf apologized, a restraining hand on the dog's scruff. "He gets excited very easily."

Dyre surveyed the dog as the others filed into the room. Draco slid away from him to stand beside the adjacent bed. The beast was still grinning wildly at him, baring sharp white teeth. Staring into that cold stare, Dyre recognized the split of the pupil, a smaller fleck of black beside the larger. The blue edge circled darker then lighter in sharp layers from each circle.

"It's a Grim," Dyre said quietly.

The werewolf paused. The dog quieted, closing its maw with a quiet whine. The werewolf's hand buried itself in the creature's neck, scratching comfortably at its skin, bunching the heavy black fur. He gave a soft, sad smile, still patting the beast.

"Dyre," a woman called to his left, breaking the silence.

Dyre turned. He had never seen this woman, but he knew immediately who she was. The resemblance was absolute. This was Draco's mother. Draco had inherited her slim figure and wavy hair. Her curls were more golden than flaxen. Her dark eyes were beads of wet jet, set in dark lashes and slim face. Pale as a lorelei, her pink lips seemed set in the perfect pout. Sly and beautiful and as deadly as a scorpion.

"I need to give you a check-up," she said, moving towards him. "Just to make sure the transfigurations have settled."

Dyre nodded, saying nothing. She expertly pushed the crowd beyond the bed, drawing the curtain round as Dyre haphazardly slid out of his nightgown. Her fingertips were cool as she tested his flesh, pressing against the organs beneath. Dyre's insides felt strangely sensitive, and he flinched back instinctively. She prodded him professionally, her face impartial and clinical. Dyre remained silent save for unexpected gasps of surprise.

She paused only after she had turned him over. She had been impartial to the scarring along his chest, scarring that looked very reminiscent of a whip. She had been prepared to survey a mass of ridges. However, she was not prepared for what lay along the length of his shoulders.

Dyre lied naked on the bed, holding the pillow to balance his upper body. There was no expression on his face when Lady Malfoy gasped, fingers drawing away from him. Neither said anything. Soon, she was working again, ignoring the rough design. Satisfied, she summoned in a fresh nightshirt.

Dyre straightened. He pulled the soft cloth over his head. It fell all the way to his feet covering his arms and legs. He buttoned the neck, fingers trembling only slightly, glad that the lady offered no assistance. When she pulled back the curtain, Dyre saw that no one had left. Indeed, it seemed that several more people had come including Professor Snape and Victor.

"It seems everything is in place," she said to James and Lily. "He will be sensitive for a long while but nothing is swollen or punctured."

Dyre finished with the last button, used to being talk over like a piece of furniture. He was grateful that she said nothing of the scarring on his back. Even that little piece of discretion meant a lot to him. The head nurse walked over and felt his chest through the nightshirt. He obliged her by breathing in and out slowly, feeling the pinch of his tight lungs.

"There is some drainage, but it should be cleared up by tomorrow," she informed them, scanning him with her wand.

There was a great sigh of relief. Dyre sat on the edge of the bed, looking neither relieved nor happy with the diagnosis. His gaze was far away again, caught in a distance none of them could recognize. His arm was fully healed, but the sickness had drained him of most of his strength. In the awkward silence, there was no movement, everyone waiting for someone else to act.

After a moment, Lily stepped forward. "Dyre, you should get more rest. I'll bring up some soup later, alright?"

Dyre turned to her. She stumbled under his indifferent stare and was forced to look away, her eyes swimming.

"You have questions, do you not?" he asked.

"Those can wait, Dyre," Dumbledore said. "Your health comes first."

"Sir, may I inquire as what has happened to the Horntail?" he asked, turning his half-stare to the headmaster.

Dumbledore's gaze turned sad. "I'm afraid the governors are convening to execute her."

Dyre stood. His legs wavered beneath him. Lily rushed forward, begging him to return to the bed, but he ignored her. He stood before Dumbledore, gaze firm and his jaw set.

"Please sir, is there any way you could save her?"

"She almost killed you and several students," Severus said offhandedly. "She's wild."

Dyre ignored him. He bowed, arms to either of his side and his head down. It was easy to see the tremble in his limbs. It was a deep bow from the waist, and Dumbledore looked suitably shocked to receive it.

"Please, Headmaster," he said, his voice strong and imploring.

Dumbledore rested his hand on his shoulder, pulling him back up. It was painful to watch someone as proud as Dyre beg. Dyre allowed himself to be maneuvered, his gaze troubled and hidden in his fringe.

"Why does her fate worry you so?" he asked softly, his wrinkled hand still gripping the boy's shoulder firmly.

Dyre seemed to struggle for words for a moment. "She does not deserve to die."

"She is dangerous," Dumbledore said softly.

Dyre's eye gained an edge. His brows drew down. His stare was suddenly resolute and unyielding as stone.

"She does not deserve to die."

Dumbledore smiled, his grip massaging his shoulder lightly. "I agree. I will speak with the governors."

Dyre's eyes widened in surprise for a moment before he hid his emotions once more. Dumbledore patted his shoulder.

"Now, you should rest," he advised.

He led him back to the bed. He moved the covers back wandlessly, aiding Dyre onto the mattress. Padfoot jumped up, curling around his feet. Dyre stared at him, and they wondered for a moment if perhaps the boy was going to reject him. Instead, he settled for reclining on the pillows, staring at the dog without expression.

Padfoot laid his head on his paws, staring back morosely. His tail flicked once before settling inquisitively on the covers. Sad, hopeful eyes begged. Lupin rolled his gaze, slightly amazed by how low his lover could sink, though his reproach was tempered with fondness.

Dyre stared at the beast a moment longer before dismissing it, closing his eyes. Padfoot raised his head, panting happily and wagging his tail.

"Pathetic," Severus scoffed, sweeping out of the room.

Narcissa followed, her wand tight in her grip. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes blazing in anger. Victor limbed out as well, satisfied with Narcissa's and Pomfrey's diagnoses and returning to his classes. Pomfrey pushed James and Lily out as well, claiming that the boy needed sleep without their anxious hovering. She wasted no reserves, pushing Dumbledore and Draco out as well, leaving the lad alone with Padfoot while she retired to her office.

Dyre stared up at the ceiling. There was nothing special in the pocked surface. The hanging lanterns were unlit as sunlight flooded through the tall windows. When Dyre seemed quite resilient to sleep, Padfoot clawed forward, belly low to the bed, covering only a few short inches with each movement. His tail wagged twice.

Dyre ignored him. Padfoot managed to get all the way up to his shoulder, tail loudly tapping his thigh.

"You're rather spoiled, aren't you?" Dyre said, his still steady and dispassionate on the ceiling.

The burrowing owl, which had been sunning on the windowsill, hopped on Dyre's chest. It stared at the Grim before puffing out its feathers and quite arrogantly disregarding him. Padfoot sneezed indignantly.

Dyre held out his finger. "Leave him alone, would you?" he asked of the little fellow.

It hopped up, scooting back and forth over the appendage.

"I know," Dyre said in response to something Padfoot couldn't hear. "But he's more comfortable like this."

It was silent for a moment before Dyre raised his head behind him towards the window. The owl flew off. Dyre sighed, lying his arm beside him. Padfoot thumped his tail again.

"If you are going to rest here, then you are to sit at the bottom," Dyre said.

Padfoot whined. Dyre turned his head, giving him full view of his mismatched stare. Padfoot sniffed again but rose, sulking as he moved back towards the end of the bed. He stopped halfway, entreating pitiably with wide animal eyes. Dyre had closed his eyes and said nothing. The dog slowly settled only halfway from his destination, watching Dyre cautiously.

After he had lied down and was not pushed off the bed, he curled around the boy's side. The warmth of his thick coat pushed through the blanket, heating Dyre's hip. Half an hour later, right as Padfoot was beginning to fall asleep, a single hand made its way to his neck. The fingers attached to his slightly oily fur, kneading gently into the flesh of his scruff. Padfoot relaxed fully, not sure whether or not he was dreaming, but he reached up, eyes closed and gently licked the palm that met him. The fingers scratched lightly at his muzzle before falling back to his coat.

Sirius Black slept.


	9. All the Running in World

"_Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!"_

~ Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carol

In a surprising three more days, Dyre had recovered completely. The adults hovered, unable to believe that the boy had healed so quickly. He had literally gone from a step at Death's door to the same proud unbending stance he had given when he first walked through the doors of the Great Hall. Those foreign eyes were so cold, colder perhaps than before. His back was always straight, and he held himself as if there was a place for every part of him. Hands on thighs, legs straight, feet together, and face taken by something far away. He responded mostly in monosyllables save for when courtesy dictated otherwise. He didn't even move in sleep. He ate when told to eat, rested when told to rest, and took all his potions obediently. Even Severus was creeped out.

On the third day, after both Narcissa and Poppy informed him he was completely healed, the group had gathered once more, eager to know what he would choose to do. James and Lily, through regretful of the reason, were happy to keep the boy within their sight. Their contentment in their meager fussing had shifted to anxiety and fear once more. But as much as they wanted to clutch him to their chests, they knew they could not.

Dyre was staring once more out the open window. The heady musk of fall was giving way to the somber briskness of winter, but they supposed to Dyre, it still felt warm. The crisp air, leaden with a dying sun, invaded the infirmary, chilling their hair. The silence stretched on, the witches and wizards somehow unable to interrupt his indifferent staring. With so many thoughts running circles through their heads, it was not hard to become lost in their own contemplative stares.

Unsurprisingly, it was Dumbledore who broke the air.

"Dyre," he called quietly.

The boy turned, and the motion moved only his neck and head, like his body was disconnected. Nothing of his face changed. Only the narrowing of his eyes indicated he was in this world at all.

"What do you intend to do now?" Dumbledore asked, for once not mincing his words.

"Do?" the boy inquired, his brow lowering only slightly. "Do you not wish to ask questions of me?"

"Are you willing to answer them?" Dumbledore countered.

Dyre looked shocked, his face going slack as his eyes widened marginally. He gathered himself quickly, glancing down at the sheets covering his lap. The standard nightgown of the infirmary ward had been foregone by a neat, charming set of pale blue pajamas. Silver snowflakes were hemmed on the cuff, and soft flannel brushed the boy's knuckles. They were Sirius' and even after hemming charms, still managed to somehow look too big on him.

"To my ability, I will answer anything that you wish to know," he said at length, still gazing at the embroidered hem of his sleeve.

Dumbledore smiled, his mouth disappearing in his beard. "Well then…" His hand swirled, and in a soft mix of evanescent light, a chair slowly formed. He set it beside the bed, scooting it closer to Dyre's side. "I should very much like to know your favorite color."

Dyre could not hide his alarm this time. The plastic sheath of non-emotion dropped way to astonishment, and he could gaze at the old man only with stunned confusion, his jaw slightly open.

"I beg your pardon?" Dyre asked, his voice lighter than its usual solemn malaise.

Dumbledore frowned thoughtfully. "Was that too personal?"

"I, uh," Dyre floundered, backing away from the wizard as if he had suddenly become diseased. He blinked several times, completely taken aback. "I don't know, sir," he ended up saying, trying to distance himself from Dumbledore happy grin.

"Quite alright, my boy. I can never choose one myself either."

"What about your favorite food?" Lily asked suddenly, leaning forward excitedly from beside her husband.

Dyre turned to her much like a startled bird, looking extremely out of his element. Those eyes that had been so distanced were fleshy, fixed on the here and now in a way that had long been missed. Dyre, in these simple questions, could not for the life of him gain his feet.

"I don't – Don't you want to know about how I could speak to the dragon or have an animagus? Or how I healed so quickly?"

"I would much prefer to know what your favorite season is," Dumbledore said, smiling fondly.

"Are you – Why on earth would that matter?" He looked beseechingly to Victor, who was lounging against the wall nonchalantly, watching him squirm amusedly.

The brutish Bulgarian shrugged. "How should I know the mannerisms of Englishmen?"

Dyre hung his shoulders, acting the part of a bewildered, caged animal.

"Oh for heaven's sake," Severus grumbled. "Would you prefer we hoist you before a firing squad and interrogate you?"

"What's a firing squad?" Draco asked.

Severus ignored him.

Dyre ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the unruly locks above his scar. "Uh, blue, I suppose," he said reluctantly.

Dumbledore clapped his hands, startling him. "Excellent choice! I sometimes fancy myself in a blue sort of mood and those are the most wonderful of days!"

Dyre grimaced. "I suppose I enjoy vegetable soups. It is forbidden to eat meats inside the Tower."

"Really?" Draco said in disbelief.

He nodded.

"That seems rather strange for your culture," Remus said curiously.

"Death perverts the weaving," Dyre said simply.

"What is the Tower like?" Draco asked suddenly.

Several of them tensed, wondering if Dyre would shift back into silence. However, they were shocked to see a warm smile. The scar twisted over his cheek, pulling his skin awkwardly. His milky eye was as silent as a grave, but his green eye sang. A soft glow lit up his young face, lending a rare warmth and gentleness to his rough features. His right eye was hooded and tender.

"It is very beautiful," he said, recalling the central cathedral and cool courtyard.

"What did you like most about it?" Lily entreated, an eager smile below eager eyes.

Dyre graced her with a smile, a timid, gentle thing much more sincere that his wily grins. "There… there is a small tree in the courtyard. The all-mothers despair of it," he said with a flicker of mischief, "but none of them have the heart to cut it down. Magic keeps her in bloom and the courtyard is always coated in petals. Even in the coldest of days, she coats the sky."

"Sounds lovely," Lily smiled encouragingly.

Dyre nodded and sighed. "It is said that the tree is connected with the Maiden, that as long as She lives, it will continue to bloom."

Lily's eyes were kind as she spoke, "You care very much for her, don't you?"

Dyre blinked, and his face lost some of its soft glory. "Of course. As would any adept of the Tower."

"Dyre," Lucius said suddenly in the silence. Dyre turned to him stolidly. "I did find something curious about your animagus form."

Dyre tilted his head a bit, appraising the lord. Lucius neither flinched nor shifted, remaining stoically impassive to his scrutiny.

"You wish," he said slowly, "to know why my form is older than I am."

Lucius nodded, grey eyes focused tightly on the youth beneath the hospital sheets.

"I suppose you know that harts are not native to Iceland as well," Dyre said more like a question, watching the man much like an eagle watches the erratic diving of an osprey.

"I noticed," Lucius replied dismissively. "But you are English."

Dyre shook his head. "That is irrelevant. I grew up in the Nordic lands and that is where I learned my craft. Magic is shaped by the land, my lord, not the caster. I am sure there are many of my countrymen who will make the correlation between me and the Potters now because of what I have done."

Lucius' eyes narrowed. "That does not explain why your animagus is fully grown while you are but a child."

"Lucius," Lily said warningly, eyes darting to her son.

Dyre raised his hand, cutting off her protests. "I do not mind this question," he said, his assessing gaze turning into something more solid and earnest. "I am one of the few whose animal is a magical creature." He paused, turning his gaze to Padfoot. "Much like your Grim, master werewolf."

Remus was properly startled, as was most the rest of the room. Padfoot stood awkwardly, braced on his hind legs, before, seeing no reason to remain anonymous, he morphed back into Sirius Black. Blue eyes shone sheepishly behind roguish black hair.

"How did you know?"

Dyre shrugged. "I can see such things," he said simply.

"With your eye," Sirius hedged, pointing towards his left unmarred one to indicate Dyre's own.

"Nor do Grims cuddle," Dyre stated in lieu of an answer.

Sirius made a noncommittal sound, scratching his unshaven cheek.

"We know Black's animagus," Severus said impatiently. "What of your creature?"

Dyre sighed. "His name is Dáinn. He is one of four Red Deer that sits beneath the World Tree Yggdrasill."

"But your animagus is black," Draco pointed out.

Dyre was silent for a second before answering rather reluctantly. "Do you know the rough translation of Dáinn?"

Victor was silent against the stone as Draco floundered. His arms were crossed, a dark expression below his heavy brow.

"The Dead One," Severus said, his expression just as cloudy.

It grew quiet. Dyre surveyed him with hidden eyes. "Rightly so, Master Snape. I have never asked why his pelt changes so upon his descent to earth, and he has never spoken of it."

"Your animagus has a separate consciousness?" James asked, his voice filled with something broaching both awe and concern.

"My actions are my own," Dyre said with a small glower. "But yes. Dáinn belongs to himself as much as I do."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Lily asked.

He struggled for a moment with his answer. "It has… potential to be dangerous, but Dáinn can harm me no more than he can forsake his nature."

"You do realize you're talking about a deer inside your head, don't you?" Draco pointed out abstractly.

Dyre stared at him for a moment. "I talk to many beasts."

"Talking to beasts isn't so weird," he said, giving him a wry look. "It's the 'in your head' part that's rather disturbing."

A smile threatened its way over Dyre's lips. "I suppose I've gotten used to it."

"We know you can talk to dragons," Remus said. "Can you talk to other animals?" he asked curiously.

"I speak to serpents," Dyre said offhandedly. "Lizard-speak is just a variation of parseltongue. It was not so hard to teach myself," he shrugged. "Other beasts communicate on their own. If they don't understand man-speech, then they can at least grasp emotion."

"And these creatures just find you and…" Severus trailed off ambiguously. "Start up a conversation just for the sake of it."

Dyre looked suddenly uneasy. He clenched his hands in the blanket covering his thighs, eyes downcast. It was silent a long time before Dyre decided to speak.

"They… they come sometimes to tell me… to tell me things. Riddles, secrets, most often I can make no sense of it," he waved off. "It's only recently that they…" he trailed, his jaw tightening. He turned away from them, a silent debate converging in his eyes.

"What do they do, Dyre?" Dumbledore asked gently, placing his hand on the blanket close to his knee.

Victor leaned up from the wall, watching the boy cautiously.

"The world is filled with awe, Banebreaker," Dyre said in a quiet voice. Something like a tight ball glistened in his blind eye, capturing an empty corner of the room. He sighed almost wistfully, a heaviness weighing down his shoulders. "Such awe as could form mountains from dust," he breathed.

Dumbledore looked to the corner. Even with his wise eyes, coated in magic and the subtle nuances of deception, he could see nothing but an empty corner playing with the dust motes in the air.

"Dyre, what are you-"

"The worlds are unbalanced," Dyre broke in suddenly, overriding him. The others shifted warily.

His hands gripped the covers again, kneading the fabric tightly. Victor moved to his side, taking his shoulders, but Dyre was immovable, gaze enraptured by the invisible magic in the corner. Sirius moved across the room, walking boldly into the empty space. He waved his hand through the air, feeling for… anything, but nothing met him. Dyre's eyes did not change.

"The things I see," he whispered in a strange hiss. A pulse beat the room, a tender throbbing in the blind eye.

"Dyre!" Victor shouted, strong hands incapable of uprooting him.

"The things I hear," Dyre continued, either ignoring him or unable to hear.

Fear reared. Dyre's green eye suddenly blurred, paling in a mix of swirls to a fine, cold mint. The pupil of his left eye dilated, angry beating jumping in the orb like a heavy heartbeat.

"They speak to me of a being that is malformed," he said in a strange voice, quick and raspy. "It walks the edges of existence. It haunts the ley lines. It comes for me."

"What comes, Dyre?" Dumbledore asked. Eyes as sharp as cobalt stones peered into him.

"They do not know."

"Dyre!" Victor shouted again, shaking him.

"Who doesn't?" Dumbledore asked, leaning in with sharp eyes and a thin mouth.

"The owls," Dyre whispered, his voice again somewhat human.

His body moved beneath the sheets. He leaned towards whatever he saw, pulling from Victor's grip. His legs slid beneath him, a strange mutinous calling in his face. There was magic in this, old and deep. Something formidable and inhuman entreating upon the lithesome son.

"The snakes, the ravens. The dead, the dying, the sidhé. The centaurs, the moons, the bones, the stars," Dyre listed, not for a moment breaking his gaze from the boundaries of that nonexistent world. "None of them know this thing. They come to warn me. I cannot cross the ley lines. Something lies in wait. It will come for me, they say. Through fire and earth and water, it comes. It brings a wrongness. It calls. It wantssss me."

Victor suddenly turned him roughly. His fist came up, slamming maliciously into his jaw. Dyre's head hit the iron bed frame. His feet tumbled from the sheets. Blood dripped onto his collar.

"Odin damns you, Dyre!" Victor shouted, towering over him impressively.

James and Remus grabbed him, pulling him from the bed. Victor's limp leg slid over the floor, the metal plate along the heel of his shoe chipping the floor, but he managed himself, relying on the strength of his left leg to stand against the werewolf and father. Lily leaned over her son, patting at his split lip. Dyre stared listless at the bedding, his left eye still overlarge and throbbing.

Victor snarled, tugging again the arms holding him. "Think of the Maiden, gods blast you!"

The oath seemed to do the trick. Slowly, the light from his left eye receded, the orb's trembling rescinding as it fogged back to dimness. Mist swirled in his right, pale lichen green bleeding backwards. The black of his pupil bobbed to the surface. The original green, dark and secretive, curved around the black, bringing to surface the wet sheen of something alive and breathing. He sat up, pushing Lily away. His hand held his left eye. Small drops of red dripped to the sheets.

The first words out of his mouth were incomprehensible. When Victor responded in kind, they realized he was speaking Icelandic. James and Remus released him.

"You know better than to dabble in the mystics," Victor said coldly in English.

Dyre weaved his hand over the sheets, calling the blood from it. The red moved with the crest of his fingers and palm, pulled from the threads in a fine thin mist. His hand flicked, and it dissipated in a small burst.

"I am sorry," he said.

The words hung. They sounded raw, like a torn wound. Heavy silence spread between the two boys, one glaring and the other with eyes downcast, a defeated, shamed slump to his shoulders. Victor left, heavy boots clanging on the tiles. The door banged loudly with his exit.

"If you know what is best," Dyre said after the door shut, "you will cast me out of this place."

"Where will you go?" Dumbledore asked reasonably before Lily and James moved to protest. His extended arm bade silence.

He tasted the blood around his lip. "Bane tells me of a gate that will lead me to the world beneath," Dyre said, purposefully avoiding their gazes and placing his thumb over his still bleeding lip. "The Hel saints will know what this world does not."

"You would go to the land of the dead?" Severus asked. Despite himself, his voice rose with incredibility, disbelief warring with terror in his face.

Dyre nodded shallowly. "I know the paths. If I cannot use the ley lines then the gates will serve me."

"And what if these saints don't know?" James said brusquely, gaze hot and feverish as his hands held back his wife's shoulders. "What will you do then?"

"I will cross the ley lines," he said dismissively. "Better a warrior's death than a coward's retreat."

"This is foolishness," Severus said at the same time that Lily and Sirius shouted their protest.

"What of Karkaroff?" Lucius asked, cool eyes calculating as he surveyed the child. "Are you not bound to him?"

"He has cast me from his sight. I must leave anyway before he decides to call upon me again. He did not know of my animagus or that I could converse with the wyrms." He sighed, his head hanging. The muscle in his jaw twitched. "I fear he will use me for more treacherous things than errands and books."

"Is there any way at all for us to separate him from you?" Sirius asked desperately.

"No way that I would wish of you," he said shortly. His gaze pulled up sharply to glare at them, daring their dissent.

Dumbledore rested a hand on his shoulder. Dyre's gaze turned to him, something of his vehement recalcitrance resurfacing from his shame.

"I am the master of this hall," the old wizard said kindly, "and as long as you stay in this land, you have asylum here."

"How can you say such a thing?" Dyre said in a breath of shock, the words moving from a hollow place in his throat. "You know evil calls for me. How can you endanger your lives and the lives of your students for someone like me?"

"Because we love you, Dyre," Lily said unabashedly, eyes shining resolutely. "And we do not wish for you to disappear again. Please," she pleaded shamelessly. "Do not leave."

Dyre frowned, his eyes turning from her. "If that is what you wish of me," he said with slow belligerence. "Then I will stay as long as I can, but it cannot last forever, my lady." Eyes suddenly bored into her, demanding attention as surely as a death threat. "One way or another, my nature will bid me leave you."

"It will just have to be enough then," James said before his wife, trapped in that violent stare, could respond.

He wrapped his arm comfortingly around Lily's waist. His brown eyes were stricken with sorrow but a stubborn strength resonated in him, lending his remorse little room to breath. The eyes that met him were just as strong as his father's gaze, resolute in their decision to harbor such calamity. He could find no ground in their potency, the warm russet of the Were, the eager opalescent cyan of the Grim. The calm, egg-blue of Banebreaker Dumbledore, the forbidding obsidian of Severus Snape, Lily's forest-green. Even Lucius, with a coolness forged of beads of mercury, was unyielding, hand gripping the top of his silver-head cane.

Dyre's gaze met cerulean grey. Though the light in the room was limited, restricted to the faint glow of the evening lanterns, something white shone in them, moving in a bright roll through the twin stares. Draco's eyes called something. They sang with a youth that Dyre could not remember. Though his mouth was tense and his brows drawn into a frown, there was still something horribly, wonderfully brilliant in his stare. It begged something of Dyre that he could not begin to fathom.

He turned away.

It was strange, Dyre thought. He had been trying so hard to escape from this, the expectation in their gazes that he could never satisfy. He had been running so hard, so fast, ignoring anything that tried to stop him, anything that tried to still him, hold in place with something as simple as a smile. So unbelievably hard he had run. And still, here he was. Fates blast him, it seemed that even with all the running in the world Dyre could never seem to move, never seem to escape the hounds of his past, the demons bearing him down into the ground.

For all his running, he could not protect the things that mattered most.


	10. Enamored

_Our almost-instinct is almost true: What shall survive of us is love._

~ "An Arundel Tomb" by Phillip Larkin

The tinkling of cutlery blended with the few dozen of different conversations. The melodious cacophony was usual for a weekday morning, children gathering at their respective tables to chatter insistently about worthless bits of drama and the occasional politics of those more involved in society's nuances. There was very little different about that Thursday morning than the previous mornings chaperoned by the faculty at the head table. Its only distinction lay in the sudden maudlin silence that rapidly descended on the three schools, prompted by the approach of Durmstrang's young, rejected champion. The Great Hall, magnificent in the display of November sky, golden plates and floating candlewicks, was abruptly buried in silence. The air was charged hostilely. In the unpleasant pause, Dyre watched his comrades.

Dark gazes surveyed him, vitriolic and shrewd. Through narrowed eyes, they took notice of his discarded habit, replaced by the uniform of a thick, inelegant black cloak. There was no insignia or crest, no loyalty to his patron school or the Scottish school that adopted him. Not even in muted colors. Even in his eyes, there was no allegiance to the furious man sitting at the head table, clutching his spearing knife in a tight-knuckled grip, nostrils flared.

Black trousers tucked into black boots, simple and without lacing. His cloak hung heavily from his shoulders to shield everything of his upper half and sides. Dyre Durmstrang no longer looked an orphaned ward of the school. Darkness swathed him, present in the Avada Kadavra glare of his right eye. There was something menacing in him, compounded by the still present stretch of his scar protruding from the black patch covering his blind eye.

The servant in him was gone.

His single-eyed glare narrowed on his headmaster before dismissing him and the rest of the Hall. Karkaroff sucked in a breath through his nose, jaw clenching and eyes ablaze furiously like the indignant gaze of an ox. Even Dyre's stance had changed, moving from some formless elegant slide to a determined and ferocious walk, shoulders squared and chin straight. Neither arrogantly up nor submissively down, it seemed a strange stroke of natural pride almost like the shiftless gaze of some noble beast, a king or an elk.

Without removing his cloak, he sat at the edge of Slytherin bench, away from rest of his countrymen and the miscellaneous Hogwarts students. Alone, he began fixing his plate, ignoring the prevalent stares fixed upon him as if nailed. Save the light touch of his silverware, there was no sound in the Hall.

Lily watched her son enter, wondering absently where he gotten his new clothes. The cut was done haphazardly, as if someone had tried much too hard to perfect it. The hem of the cloak hung uneven, though it hid everything of his clothing beneath it save his beaten leather boots. Had he made them?

They weren't sure whether or not he had intended to be so intimidating or so cold. His desolate gaze allowed nothing, not even the comfort of a friendly wave. He isolated himself in his attire, pose forbidding any recognition. As he fixed his plate, he did not look up, intent on the mechanics of his breakfast. Watching the Durmstrang students, Lily could see that they didn't know how to act. Karkaroff looked ready to blast the boy into a wall but was holding ground merely for propriety's sake. Dumbledore had kept him separate from Lily's side of the table, placing him between himself and Madam Maxine. There was little he could do from the table but glare in outrage.

The adults at the head table looked between each other, none of them sure how to approach the boy or capable of ignoring such a vagrant display of enmity.

A group of students entered from the open doors, a few Hufflepuffs and Draco, who sported a wide yawn. The Hufflepuffs immediately noted the stressed atmosphere of the Hall, huddling together nervously and running in a bundle to their table. Draco stretched his arms wide, popping a few of his vertebrae. He plopped down rather undignified at the edge of his house's table, pulling a plate from further up the table so he could sit to the other side of Dyre.

"Why's everyone so quiet?" he asked of Dyre as he filled his plate with eggs, pointedly oblivious to the avid attention of the Hall.

Dyre stared at him, holding his spearing knife over his plate of fruit.

Draco looked up when he received no answer, an agitated confusion spreading over his face as Dyre continued to stare vacantly. "What?"

Dyre shook his head, looking down. He slid a piece of grapefruit into his mouth. Only a few people caught the slight smirk hiding in the corner of his lips. Sound began again timidly, the clicking of knifes and forks bleeding into whispers then into slowly animated gestures and words until conversation had once again resumed. Lucius shook his head enigmatically, bewildered by the mannerisms of his heir. Narcissa, who had not retired the castle since called from her bed, placed a hand over his arm, wearing that half-smirk that their son had inherited. She sipped her tea, earrings glistening faintly with her mirth.

"Say Lucius," Pomela Sprout whispered, ignoring Severus' indignant mutterings as she leaned over him and his plate. "What happened to Dyre?"

"You're asking me?" he enquired in lieu of an answer, cutting into his sausage.

"Well, Draco seems rather cozy with him," she continued to whisper intriguingly.

"Will you persist from making conversation over my breakfast?" Severus snapped irritably, unsuccessfully trying to brush the woman from his breakfast.

"Just a minute, dear," she waved aside, her gaze remaining on Lucius. "He's such a dear lad," she continued. "He was injured after that debacle with the dragon, wasn't he? You don't suppose he's going through a depression, do you?"

He was sure that to someone like Professor Sprout, depression was only a vague term associated with a lingering sadness that prompted one to do excessively irrational things. But her eyes were worried, and though she obviously thought something of a contrary nature had afflicted the boy, she really had no idea what to think of the transition between helpful though quiet lab assistant to melancholy, bellicose teenager. Lucius fought the urge to sigh.

"Madam, I assure you," Lucius said with his usual political candescence. "I know nothing of Dyre's mental state."

She pouted, straightening back into her chair, obviously disappointed with such an unsatisfying verdict.

"I sure he's fine, Pomela," Lily said to the elder professor, her voice kind.

The woman had inquired upon Dyre several times, fended off by Dumbledore's and Lily's adamant declarations of his health. She had participated in the hunt for him in the forest, knowing no more than that he had been found but was suffering a slight bout of a cold from running about in the rain. She hardly looked comforted by their assurance, picking at her plate mulishly before Remus drew her into conversation about her newly potted mandrakes.

James grabbed Lily's hand beneath the table, gracing her with a comforting smile. "He's fine," he said in a low voice.

"But he looks so… not right," she protested, staring at her lovely boy as he listened politely to Draco's prattle across the hall.

"I'm not right either," James said, his brows drawing down. There was heat in his tone, threatening to alert the whole table if he didn't settle. He sighed, releasing his indignation at the same time he gave Lily's hand a gentle squeeze

"Lily, he's bound to be upset. We can't right everything in a day."

"But, James, I don't feel like we have the time to reach him," she said in frustration, brilliant green eyes swimming dangerously with helplessness. "I don't want to see him like this."

"Be happy we see him at all."

James turned his gaze to the end of Slytherin's table. Though the patch Sirius had unearthed from the medical cabinet covered the hideousness of that misty eye, there was something ominous in its mystery. He had seen what lay beyond the stiff cloth; they all had. They knew that another terrifying world threatened the child with that enigmatic eye, but it seemed as if covering it up only strengthened its potency.

They knew why Dyre had hidden it. He could not risk falling into that realm again. He could not stand against whatever demons called to him from the world beneath theirs. But coupled with his new black attire, strict and foreboding, he looked the part of a criminal, a murderer lurking between the shadows. There was hardly a part of him not entrenched in darkness. Perhaps he was trying to fend off their affection. It was not the first time they had seen him try to warn them away with his indifference. But then, perhaps, after so many long years of being parading with Karkaroff's insignia across his chest, he just wanted to wear something that belonged to no one but himself.

James knew that Dyre was staying only because he thought he owed them something for helping him. He didn't like it, but he took where he could. Though part of him chafed at tying Dyre to this place, to them, another more prominent part did not care. As long as their son was here, walking the same halls, breathing the same air, then it little mattered what stroke of luck brought him here.

"What in the world would make him happy?" Lily asked beside him, staring wretchedly at the dark child at the end of the Hall.

James shook his head. He didn't know.

o.O.o

Dyre listened to Draco talk about how Professor Binns wouldn't know History if it bit him on his incorporeal arse, that he was mad at some fellow named Blaise for exchanging his shampoo for lube and that there was a bat in the dungeons that despite silencing wards managed to keep him up all night, which was why not only was he late to breakfast but he had "horribly wretched" dark circles under his eyes and he refused to stoop to commoner level and fix it with a beauty charm. Malfoys did not need beauty charms, he had told Dyre firmly.

Dyre sipped from his chamomile tea. Though he had planned to make a quick getaway after breakfast, he found himself lingering, listening to the blond talk to him about everyday life like he was normal. Despite his resolve to remain as unapproachable as possible, he could not keep the faint smile from his mouth, hiding it in the corner of his wooden cup. Even sleep-deprived, Draco was a ball of indignant energy, suffering insults and exclamation like an over-indulged child. He reminded him a bit of Yrsa, whose loud vigor constantly rivaled the authority of the all-mothers. In the privacy of Dyre rooms, she had just about as bad of a sailor's mouth as well.

Draco had not had time this morning to slick back his hair, and like in the infirmary, it fell in gentle, unrepentant waves just like his mother's. His hands constantly moved as he talked, pointing with his spearing knife and spoon accusingly at Dyre, who, though he didn't speak, seemed to take unforgivable sides in Draco's arguments. Despite his wild mannerisms, there was etiquette in him. He made to sure to swallow before he spoke, and if he wielded his utensils as weapons, at least he did not fling about his food like a slob. His napkin was in his lap, the cup always to the right side of his plate. He sat with his thighs and ankles together and his back unwavering straight, though he occasionally leaned over when something Dyre had not-said stuck with him the wrong way.

First and foremost, it seemed Draco Malfoy looked at him as an equal.

Victor saw him as an equal, but Victor was not the son of a lord. The Krums were a farmer's family, pledged to an old clan whose eldest daughter took a liking to the young lad working in their barn. As a favor to his most beloved child, Lord Thorp allowed the ungainly lad to attend the prestigious school of Durmstrang with his son as a servant. Comley died early from a misled curse from a minor spat in the mead hall. However, Victor, whose lame leg should have immediately exiled him from the high ranks of the warrior class, picked up his liege's sword and ran the bastard through with it. Touched by this display of loyalty, Lord Thorp allowed his retainer to remain in the school and learn the nuances of battle and magic. It was much easier for Victor to accept Dyre considering that the man was once a barn-lad. Though Dyre still called him lord out of respect.

Though culture in Europe might not be as strict as that in Iceland, Dyre expected that there would have been some outrage with the sole heir of a prominent lord consorting with a servant. Perhaps it was because of his association with the Potters. Still, if his class did not outmatch him, then the curse in his soul must surely alienate him. He had died once. Surely, the young lord would understand that he was not someone to align himself with. He was dangerous and inhuman.

However, Draco seemed completely oblivious of the curse in him, and Dyre wasn't sure whether to find his disregard endearing or worrying. He admitted to himself that he was slightly enamored with the lord. Who wouldn't be? An entourage seemed to follow the boy wherever he went, fawning over his golden locks and coy stare. Draco was a beautiful boy, a beautiful rich boy whose father owned more of the land around them than the Ministry and had almost as much political influence as Dumbledore. Not to mention that Draco's magic near sang. Conceited and spoiled, there was no doubt that Draco's arrogant personality might place a person off his meal, but also there was cunning. Quick with insult and sly with his words, this was a person bred to rule an empire.

It was just that Dyre found his conceit endearing as well. Surely there was not a person in the whole world as self-absorbed as Draco. He sat there with little regard that Dyre had said nothing at all, assured that whatever he said would be listened to, if not with adoration, then at least with the utmost respect. Dyre had watched him work a crowd. There was a lusty swagger to his smile, a coy drawl to the way his eyes flickered closed. He easily had half the school eating from the palm of his hand.

It was intriguing that Draco exhibited nothing of his abundant public skill in trying to manipulate Dyre. His motions were innocent, free of all the subtle nuances of his sex. When he touched his hair, it was a self-conscious effort to tame the free, tumbling locks, not a coy flirtation. His eyes were clear and unhooded, staring at Dyre head-on instead of under lowered lashes. The timbre of his voice was natural, neither husky nor deceptively shy.

He was talking to Dyre like a person, not a tool, and Dyre found he could allow Draco his selfish chatter. Talking for the sake of talking. Without intrigue or deprecating jabs.

"Dyre, are you listening to me?" Draco asked, eyes narrowing angrily.

"You are speaking to me," Dyre said, a spark of something devious in his single seaweed-green eye.

"Yeah," Draco ceded, leaning back to take the last bite of his sausage. "Doesn't mean you're listening though."

"I was listening," Dyre promised softly.

Draco merely raised his brow, and Dyre smiled again. Dyre started to rise, throwing his napkin on his empty plate and draining the last of his tea from the small cup.

"Where are you going?" Draco asked, alarmed.

"Forgive me, lordling, but I promised that I would attend the nursery after breakfast." He buttoned his cloak, stepping from the bench.

"Um, Dyre," Draco called.

The boy turned, giving Draco his full attention. The blond returned his stare, slight trepidation in his cigar-smoke gaze.

"This weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend," he said uneasily but a sudden, rough spike of pride obviously made him steel his tone as his next words were imbued with confidence. "I was wondering if you might like to go with me."

Dyre stared at him.

"Just as friends, you know," Draco retracted, ungraceful once more. "I mean, you don't have to or anything. But you haven't been there, so I thought I could show you around. As friends and all."

"You consider me a friend?" Dyre said quickly and a little vehemently, still staring at him with his eyes narrowed.

Draco frowned. "Well, yeah. Don't you?"

Dyre's gaze softened just a bit. It was indecipherable from the head table, where over half the table was watching the two, but Draco could see it. It was entrancing how his face changed. He wondered what Severus would look like if he smiled like that. With just his eyes.

"I suppose I do," Dyre said.

With a small inclination of his head, he turned, cloak billowing, and walked from the Great Hall. Many heads turned to watch him, but it was Draco's gaze he felt burrowing beneath the fabric of his cloak and doublet. It was Draco's gaze and his words that reached through the fortress of his curse, grasping at a part of himself he had closed off long ago. Boots clipping the stone floor, it was Draco's face that brought a delicate smile to the tip of his features, overcoming the grey pallor of his solitude.

Enamored, was he?

o.O.o

Dyre stood before the mirror, feeling like quite the idiot. He was going to meet Draco outside the school in 15 minutes and he couldn't for the life of him decide whether or not he wanted to change clothes again.

Feeling rather brazen, Dyre had tried on the navy doublet Severus had purchased for him on Lily's orders. Over his usual undershirt, it made him look very tall and composed. The crisp black rims braided into a V over his chest, silk knots pulling the piece closed at his waist. It was a simple design, meant for dueling, but the cut was elegant, much more elegant than anything Dyre had worn before. The collar clipped his neck, the sides flaring slightly over his trousers.

He pulled at the sleeves again, fiddling with the pewter buttons. Really, it was just cloth. It had no meaning whatsoever. So what if it brought out the subtle tones of color in his remaining eye? So what if it somehow perfectly suited his ink-black hair? So what if the vest Draco wore last week matched it perfectly? It was just a shirt.

Shaking his head, he pulled the doublet over his head. He quickly donned his usual black shirt, donated by Victor three years back, feeling much more comfortable in the ambiguous hue. The ribbed sides clung with elastic stretching, tight yet still movable. The neck was free and his cuffs loose enough to easily pull the small dagger strapped below his wrist. He tucked his undershirt into his pants again, straightening the doublet.

It was no effort to shrug on his boots or quickly tie his hair into a small tail at his nape. The tail was his one and only attempt to somehow tame the wild mess of his hair. Though pulling the strands from his neck, it did nothing to his bangs or the cowlick that somehow defied logic atop his head. He tugged the thin crème tie with a flourish, knotting it without a bow.

With six minutes remaining, he left the room, closing the door behind him without even bothering to lock it. He had nothing of value in there anyway. After his first failed attempts to sleep on the mattress, Dyre had abandoned his efforts entirely. Most nights he spent in the forest, dozing with the centaur herd that had given him shelter the past few weeks. Occasional nights he spent wandering the long halls of the castle, attuning himself to the strength of moon that bathed the open alcoves in white. The silence of a place spoke louder than its echoes.

He came to the rooms Dumbledore had lent him only to change robes and shower with the fresh bar of soap the elves left every morning, whether he used it or not. He saw the beasts occasionally, scurrying silently and in secret between the shadows with laundry and cleaning implements. House elves had long mastered darkness, teaching to their little ones centuries of secrets that wizards would never know. It was a quiet life they led, and some part of Dyre admired their service and loyalty while another felt very sad.

Students scurried past him in their hurry to reach the front gates. They talked excitedly amongst themselves, the youngest of them holding hands at the wrist and forearm. The older students had more reserve, but conversation was lively with talk of chocolate, butterbeers, and joke shops. Dyre knew nothing of Hogsmeade or its magical shops. Iceland was fairly isolated and Durmstrang even more so. On rare occasions, Dyre's service would demand his attention in one of the few towns that dotted the mainland. He had even been sent inland to Norway once.

Mostly, Karkaroff would send him off to deliver errands to council members and prominent lords. It was hardly anything more serious than brown-nosing but a few times it had concerned a member of the school in dire need of his or her family. It happened sometimes that the lectures were too intense, the lessons too harsh and a mishap had laid a student on a deathbed. Sometimes, it was a vengeful curse (like in the case with Comley Thorp), political subterfuge making its way from the outside lords to the school. Death was no stranger to Durmstrang.

As Dyre near the entrance, the path became clogged with students eager to make their way into town. They were coupled with new friends in both blue and ruddy brown, Beauxbatons beauties mixing with hearty Durmstrang warriors into a strange milieu of the three schools. The clock struck three when Dyre lighted the first step, searching above the heads for a shock of blonde.

"Dyre!"

Draco waved his hand over the crowd, trying to grab his attention. Shaking his head, he moved from the elevation of the stoop. He slipped easily through the mingling students, reaching Draco who was glaring at two of his housemates. A girl with trim dark brown hair and a button nose grinned slyly at him. The boy beside her, a tall dark-skinned lad with curly brown hair, gave Draco a wink before they turned away, waving hands over their heads in departure.

"Don't mind them," Draco said, still glaring at their retreating backs. "They're just being stupid."

Having only a faint idea about what they were being stupid about, Dyre shrugged it off.

"Come on." Draco grabbed his arm at the elbow and began hauling him through the crowd towards the front gates.

It seemed most the medley was waiting for more companions to join them, and only a few were making their way towards Hogsmeade. The road was dry with permafrost and a group of Beauxbatons girls huddled together in winter coats. For Dyre and even for Draco, one cloak suffixed. As soon as they were out of sight of the squirming mass, Draco released his arm, moving to stand beside him while his gaze drew far over the grey road.

It was a silent walk to the town, the wind pulling at the tails of their cloaks and nipping at their cheeks. Dyre's stride was even, his head held up as he surveyed the land around them. The forest lay to the other side of the school, but as they rounded the road, the trees curved towards the Great Lake. Cool waters greeted them as they made their way over the bridge, an arched structure of red iron girders. The Lake disappeared to the east, hedged by the tall pines and oaks of Scotland.

"Do you miss Iceland?"

Dyre turned. Draco gave a soft easy smile. His hands were stuck in his pockets, scarf trailing behind him. The thick yarn encumbered his slim neck, bunching at his burgundy cloak, trimmed with ermine fur. The hood was down, revealing a strange, clean strength to the boy's lean features. His hair was slicked back again, stealing from his grace and lending something sharper. Those blue-grey eyes were crisp but not unkind as they stared unrepentant at Dyre.

"It is very different here," he settled for saying.

"Is that good or bad?"

Dyre stared at him. Not the unbending gaze of a noble but the gentle curiosity of a fawn or calf. He breathed ice into the air, watching the misty cloud while he waited for Dyre to answer. The lake lapped softly beneath them. When Draco looked back up, the shades of Dyre's eye shifted like strips of light and shadow playing in gillyweed.

"I think, a little of both."

~ X ~

This chapter is dedicated to RebeccaSeverusSnape, who had been an avid supporter of this fic with her reviews. Special thanks also to Wolven Spirits and MidNite Phoenix, who have kept up with the story. And to everyone who has enjoyed this fic, review or not.

As a gift, I'm updating sooner than my usual lackadaisical habit. Enjoy.


	11. What Cannot Be a Lamb

_When I was a child I truly loved:_

_Unthinking love as calm and deep_

_As the North Sea. But I have lived,_

_And now I do not sleep._

~ _Grendel_ by John Gardner

The night was clear in the aftermath of another fresh fall rain. Grey beings drifted swiftly like ghosts over a half moon, scattered amid the stars. The forest had a shimmer to it borne of a thousand billion little smiles. The trees dripped, a few branches weaving and making the drops dance while others shed them with a single mighty shake. Animals huddled in burrows and crevices with their young, licking their faces. The loud sounds of hunters and their prey were absent that night. Even the Dark beasts acknowledged nature's small interlude commanding them into hovels and out of dew-emblazed webs.

Dyre stood beside Morgan. For the moment a human, he reached only the centaur's flank. Stray beads of liquid nestled in the short fur of the creature's hind and winded in his mane, tail and hair. His face was lifted upwards, fawn-like wiry curls cresting into a long widow's peak that reached between his eyes to his inhuman nose. Pointed ears listened to the quiet intrigue of the forest. Grey speckled his coat, lending him dirty silver shoes. Despite his age, Morgan was a strong stallion, his pride tempered with experience. Wise, cloudy brown eyes, much larger and odder than a human's, surveyed the sky.

Dyre, naked, could feel the grass slick between his toes. The fresh scent of wet wood and dirt was deep. His black hair was darker than the night, which cast sapphire blue candescence to the clearing. The moon, pocked by lopsided grey eyes, peered back at them.

"Did you have fun with your lamb?"

Morgan's voice was not unlike the deep tenor of a grandfather or old master. There was little jest in the words, just a kind manner than pervaded all malaise. Patient and knowing.

"Draco is no lamb."

Morgan's solemn expression did not change. "Aye."

Dyre frowned, not so much upset as uneasy. Draco wasn't a lamb. Though self-absorbed, small and innocent, Draco knew the world. Innocent, he was not ignorant, nor an idiot. He wanted to trust that Draco knew enough about himself and the world around him to understand how dangerous Dyre was and what would happen if… if anything, _anything_, broached that horrible space within him reserved for monsters. He wanted to believe that Draco would be safe.

"Is it wrong to have this fear?" he asked.

"For you," Morgan said. "Fear is right."

Dyre looked down. His toes curled, uprooting fine tendrils of grass. His fists clenched and an awful motion struck his chest. Still, the boy did not cry out. Morgan did not turn from the sky, giving privacy to Dyre's weakness.

"It is folly to be this scared."

Crickets played serenades, and for a moment, nothing in the world existed except their strings. Frost was already gathering at the tips of the grass, twisting whispery tendrils in Dyre's hair and burning his feet, fingertips and cheeks.

"Tonight is a beautiful night," Morgan said.

Dyre looked up again. Majesty crested the moon and its sparkling cemetery. The sparse clouds, mere remnants of the storm, were like broken ships, wreckage of a battle abandoned to the crypts of the lake. Grey sylphs with great tears in their shifts, ripped nails scratching at air, scarred the sky. Orion and Lypus were like far away cities, somehow connected by the same distance that isolated them.

"It is," Dyre agreed.

He wanted no more than to reach up. He could imagine the thin sheet rippling, stars laughing and winking gaily, as he cupped the night sky in his hands. Inky tears would leak from the crevice of his palms but that small mirror, like a window into God, would remain unforgivably whole. How wonderful to rip though something, break it apart, separate it from everything it knows, and it still remain whole.

o.O.o

With the announcement of the Yule ball came furious courtships. The halls were molested by whispers and gossip.

Durmstrang did not host balls but all nobility knew how to dance. Though the hearty warriors of shield and sword played strings far better than they danced. Even the roughest of them sang. Dyre doubted if the students of Durmstrang would be able to compete with the beauties of Beauxbatons, whose cultured name seemed to demand the respectabilities of pianos and waltzes.

It was strange to watch the habits of the British. They were peculiarly casual in their dalliances. Dyre did not know much about such things, but he knew enough that the daughters of lords did not flaunt themselves quite so leisurely as these girls. The maids that worked the halls and kitchens were fair game to the rowdy lords, but the daughters were untouchable, intended for political courtships. Transgressions were worthy of death duels in Holmgang.

Dyre felt ill to his stomach watching some of them regard him with those hungry gazes. He was too much of a professor's plaything for the maids of Durmstrang to be interested in. Not to mention Karkaroff's undisguised hatred of him tempered their attention. He wasn't overall sure what to make of this foreign flirtation. Thankfully, none of them had approached him, perhaps because he disappeared whenever they rose to greet him, a habit he was very grateful to have mastered.

Another question that arose with this ostentatious event was that of his date. He had been informed that the contestants were required to participate in the first dance. Dyre had no doubt in his ability, something trained in him from a early age by the Maiden, but his place in society made his acquaintance with any potential escort dubious.

He supposed his safest bet was to take one of the Hogwarts students. Though the elite of their kind, most were neither gentry nor nobility. Taking a muggleborn would minimize insult, but the problem, quite frankly, was that he didn't know any.

The squirming feeling in the back of head wanted to ask Draco. It was a shameful thought though, one immediately dispelled. Not only would appearing together at such a public event damage the heir's status but taking him as a date, in a blatantly submissive role, was highly insulting to a warrior. Culture was different in Britain, but the Icelanders would recognize the offense. No doubt Draco would be considered a whore. Under no circumstances was he going to put him in such a degrading position. If Draco would have even accepted the invitation anyway.

Which meant he was stuck.

Surprisingly, reprieve came from Neville Longbottom. The two had grown comfortable enough to gossip in the evenings and mornings they spent weeding and potting plants, and Neville had casually asked if Dyre had found a date. Dyre was hard-pressed to burden him with his problem, but he was fast running out of resources and time. Neville listened quietly, his shears periodically snipping at the elongated vines tyrannically straggling the eucalyptus blossoms.

"I think I might know a girl," he told him after he had finished. "She's muggleborn. If you explain the situation, she might agree to go with you."

"Will I not insult her by saying I'm asking her because she's muggleborn?"

Neville gave a small shrug and a timid smile. "Maybe," he confessed. "But I think she'll listen to you first. I mean, you won't be rude about it or anything."

Dyre gave a slight hum, and the two elapsed into muted talk about the weather and what it might portend for the tarantacula vines.

The girl's name was Hermione Granger. He had a bit of a struggle with her first name, but Neville tutored him well enough that he wouldn't make a fool of himself after he was introduced. Plucking up resolve to approach the girl, he visited her reputed haunt, the library.

Dyre had visited the library only a few times, but without his reading glasses, the tomes were mostly worthless to him. In the furthest alcove, sitting at a sunlit table empty of all else but three thick stacks of books and strewn papers, was a bushy-haired Gryffindor, stern gaze cemented to a yellowing, moth-eaten text. A simple, unadorned band kept the hair from her face, and other than the sunless pallor of her cheeks, she was rather pretty. Her button nose sat in a small face, just enough to be attractive but not beautiful. Her chestnut hair was unkempt, but her clothes were ironed and her tie straight. She read quietly. Save the slight wrinkle of her brow, nothing of the impatient habits of a young scholar revealed her.

As he hesitated by a shelf, she drew her shawl closer. The day outside was clear but cold. Her back was to the window, and he suspected the spell that warmed the room did not extend to the chill that emanated from the glass. She adjusted her legs, hooking her ankles behind the rung of the bench. Without looking up, she turned the page.

Dyre backed away and came again, making his footfalls heavier, but not heavy enough to seem intentional. When he broached the shelf again, Hermione had not looked up but a more reserved expression masked her face.

"Excuse me," Dyre said, voice clear but soft in the respectable space of the library.

She lifted her head. Her eyes were a harmless brown, almost hazel. She set the book down but did not smile, watching him expectantly.

"Can I help you?"

"You are Hermione Granger?" he asked, standing beside the empty space of the bench.

Her expression turned guarded, but she did not shirk from him. "Yes."

Dyre gave a small modest bow, bending his body at the waist with his arms by his side. "I am Dyre Durmstrang. If it is not an inconvenience to you, I would ask a favor."

He could tell that his formality intrigued her and, if the slight blush on her cheeks was talkative, flattered her as well. She said nothing, no doubt not at all knowing how to handle such a situation. Dyre met her gaze for a moment before he gestured to the seat across from her.

"May I sit?"

She nodded, moving her books from between them so that a small wall protected their conversation.

"You are aware that the champions are required to take the first dance at the Yule ball," he began.

She nodded attentively.

"Are you aware of my position at Durmstrang?"

Her brow crinkled just a bit, like she had tasted something unsavory. "Yes," she said simply.

Dyre nodded, taking no offense at her displeasure, though it was a heavy mark against him. "Asking someone to the ball would be an insult to nobility like my countrymen and the ladies of Beauxbatons. But Hogwarts works differently than the sister schools."

She nodded again in understanding.

"Asking one of the students here would not be so offending, but I do not know anyone appropriate to approach."

"What about Draco Malfoy?" she interrupted.

He was startled for a moment, slightly terrified that he had made their acquaintance too well known, but looking at her, he could see that she meant no ill by her words. He devised that she was just extraordinarily observant.

"Lord Malfoy would never agree to act as my escort. Also, asking him to take a submissive role in public would be very degrading."

"But it's ok for girls," she said perturbedly.

He shook his head, trying to appear as earnest as possible. "I would never ask a sheildmaiden to accompany me either. But for a scholar, it is considered appropriate."

She leaned back. "So you want to ask me," she deducted.

"If it would not inconvenience you," he said with another slight bow.

"Why me?" she asked warily. "You don't know me anymore than anyone else in Hogwarts."

"I help Lord Longbottom in the greenhouse, and he directed me to you. Miss Granger, I mean nothing untoward," he promised. "And after the first dance you can certainly feel free to do as you please."

She regarded him intensely for a moment, and he could see her mind at work. She really had a beautiful way of thinking, he noticed. Most people looked like they were trying too hard, straining for things just out of reach. But Hermione's face was confidently serene. She trusted in knowledge and the logical conclusion of events. This was a girl who believed that everything had a purpose and that every purpose was meaningful. To Dyre, she seemed very kind, and he was thankful that he had met her, even if she declined his offer.

He waited patiently for an answer, knowing that this was his last resort. His only resort. Still, Hermione might not want to associate with him in public. Even with the political obstacles of being muggleborn, she was still of much higher standing than him. He doubted that she belonged to a family that would care about such extravagancies, but he knew so little about muggle culture.

Compared to the sheildmaidens, she had a remarkably relaxed way of holding herself but did not flaunt herself like other girls her age. She was much more reserved, and though not timid, he thought, she was quiet. She might not want the gossip of appearing with him in public. After all, what would she get from associating with him but ridicule?

Dyre prepared to withdraw, an apology on his lips, before she spoke. "Shouldn't you ask me now or something?"

He looked up, slightly surprised, but her gaze was clean, revealing nothing of her thoughts. With a respectful bow of his head, he took her hand from the table and lightly brought his lips to her knuckles. Her hands were not as elegant as Draco's and the small flutter of shameful emotion that colored his thoughts was absent. Still, he recognized some fond regard in the gesture as he looked back up at her entreatingly.

"Hermione Granger, will you accompany me to the Yule ball?"

o.O.o

"Is this truly necessary?" Dyre asked, regarding the cuff of his cloak. "My uniform would be more appropriate."

Sirius Black ignored him, drawing in the shoulders of his old robes. He held his wand between his teeth. Dyre dropped his gait and slid out from under his hands. Sirius rolled his eyes, slipping his wand from his mouth to push it back into the holster of his belt. Dyre eyed him distrustfully before walking across the room. The door to the dresser was open, revealing to the animagus the single pair of boots squatting at the bottom and the two habits dangling forlornly from the hangers.

Dyre reviewed himself in the mirror. He felt both ridiculous and out of place. A servant had no right to wear these sorts of things. The waistcoat was of an 18th century fashion, darned with thick, tight yarn and emblazoned with leather trim. The cufflinks were crafted silver, tied in ancient Celtic knots. The high collar protected his throat and brushed his still unruly locks. The pewter buttons tapered his waist and the cravat puffed obtrusively from its confines. Sirius had tailored the pants a tad too tightly and the dark knickerbockers clung. The damn shoes pinched.

"The clothes suit you," Sirius, his designated maid, said behind him.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. The English were such a pompous people. He unbuttoned the coat.

"What are you doing?" Sirius shouted in distress.

"I am not a fop," he said.

As he disrobed to his undershirt and johns, Sirius pouted.

"You going naked then?"

Sirius was not so different than his cousin in that he enjoyed playing doll. Narcissa was more assertive in her decisions, demanding the obedience of her poor model. Sirius, at least, savored his toying in offhanded comments. He sighed as Dyre continued to stand there in his underwear, making no attempt to either swipe up his servant attire or pick the clothes from the floor.

"Wait here," he instructed tiredly, disappearing into the hall.

Dyre watched the space he had vacated apathetically. When he did not return immediately, he turned his gaze to the mirror. His patch was dark against his face. Though Sirius had tried to convince him to adorn it like a Venetian mask, he preferred the clean, naked quality of the smooth cloth. He could feel the knot against the back of his head, buried in the layers of his hair. It glided over his nose, covering the upper brow of his uninjured eye and disappearing completely in raven locks.

He had no problem deciphering the knot, tugging the ends loose. As the blind came undone, he closed his eyes. The cloth sagged before falling over his nose and away from his face entirely. Waiting a moment, he opened his eyes again.

The scar was no less hideous than it had been his entire life, cracking a full third of his face. It ran from the middle of his forehead, jutted beneath his eye, arching towards his nose, and continued down his cheek in a disfigured lightning bolt. Having covered the main portion of it for nearly a month, he felt surprised that the opaque liquid quality of the blind orb was unchanged. He raised his hand to his right eye and the world went dark. He spaced his fingers and his reflection returned between the calloused digits, a somber face lending him no solace.

He half-expected that restrained to darkness, his eye would come alive, seeking revenge on its enforced dormancy, but it was as cruelly callous as it had ever been. It stared back at him despondently. He slammed his palm into the mirror, covering the deformity. The glass was cool, cracking slightly. His breathing was ragged and his chest heaved.

He turned his head away. Now was not the time for this. He withdrew his palm, taking a small sliver of glass with him. The band went round his face again, tied in a quick yank. Easing his breath, he moved the liquid of the glass over the distortion, covering the evidence of his outburst. His reflection stared back grimly, once more whole and solid.

He wondered if Yrsa had perfected her scrying yet. She often slaved over the medium in her bowl, slapping the water when it refused to yield her sight. Mirrors were a step above water, the liquid more dense and slow though it lent a two-way to the observer. Sound was impossible to direct, but Dyre would have given dearly to see her face. For a moment, he pondered if the Maiden had witnessed his act of violence. She did not require the passageway of a medium, and he hoped dearly that She had skimmed over him this evening.

The thought sobered him, and he was able to clear up the mess of clothes he had made of the floor. By the time Sirius returned, he had folded them neatly on the bed.

"Alright, sour puss," the man grumbled. "These are Remus'. If you are even more of a prude than he is, not even Merlin could help you."

Dyre balked quietly over the ridicule. He certainly hadn't asked the man to oversee him like an irritable chamberlain. He turned his attention instead to the clothes. It pleased him to see that they were of lesser quality, wool as opposed to finely bred cotton. Also, the ridiculous knickerbockers had been replaced with a pair of formal trousers.

"We'll have to change the colors," Black mused, running the fabric between his fingers. "Is this any better?"

Dyre looked up, a bit shocked by the eager-to-please tone of the man's voice. He was sure a moment ago that this whole absurd dolling had been little more than a deluded whim. Dyre was used to Karkaroff's intolerant bicker, in which insults were flung about as profusely as autumn leaves. He was sure that Black had some role for him to play. Best friend to his… father, he was probably entertaining thoughts of a magnanimous uncle, in which dressing him for his first dance was something of a ritual.

Dyre had no qualms throwing out the ill-suited costuming nor of dissuading the clumsy animagus from thinking he could play some perfect part of an even more perfect family. He had not expected the anxiousness that kept his shoulders bundled and his grey eyes peeking past unkempt locks. Sirius fiddled nervously with the hem of tailored vest, watching him from the corner of his eye like an uneasy hound. He was unused to this type of attention, where his opinion honestly mattered.

He stared at Sirius as if trying to find some hidden meaning behind his words. Sirius squirmed uncomfortably, masking the action by scratching his nose. His lone green eye still on him, he approached the robes. The vest was tailored with a subtle and somewhat comely pattern of interlocking herbs, blooming in archaic designs with almost unraveling threads. The burgundy fibers were stitched into golden brown fabric, a few shades lighter than the trousers, which were cut loose and unassuming. Golden buttons tucked the vest close, allowing room for the cravat to froth at his neck.

He still thought it too much, but he supposed Miss Granger deserved something more than his uniform habit, tidy though it was.

"This will do," he answered to Sirius' question.

Sirius beamed like someone had given him a treat. He waved his wand enthusiastically, his optimistic mood returning as sudden as a thought.

"Of course, we'll change the colors. Remus is gold but you are definitely silver. And we don't have a waistcoat and Remus said you'd hate the jacket as much as he does."

Dyre watched him as he continued to ramble, marveling at the fact that the man actually seemed to care about his comfort and wasn't just indulging him for the sake of it.

He changed the dirty blond fabric to black, and Dyre had to admit that he was slightly impressed with his craft. Dyre wasn't intimate with many tailoring charms, lacking the skill or the will to learn the intricate designs of fashion. But there was a reason that lords and ladies did not simply weave their clothes with magic. Other than the fact that it was outrageously plebian, it was also difficult.

Cloth was very delicate. Casting too many spells on it made it unravel or become impossibly stiff. When he first began charms, Dyre had trouble aplenty simply summoning the blood from his habit. Magic clung, and, like fire, was very difficult to manage with any manner of artistry. He had ripped through numerous tunics with his practicing, sewing into the wee hours of morning so Karkaroff would be none the wiser. Only someone with a lot of control could direct the fine nuances that bleached and dyed wools, silks, and cottons. It was a master's art.

He watched intrigued as the vest turned black in a pulsing wave. He had even kept the maroon threading. He performed the charm on the britches as well and recrafted the gold buttons into silver with a light tap of his wand. He stood back to admire his work, and Dyre took the chance to do the same.

It was something a lord would wear. Perhaps one of the minor clans that served as buffer between the upper gentry and the merchant's guild, but a lord nonetheless. Dyre could only stare at it, consumed with the sudden urge to wear it. He could remember an embarrassing episode when he was young when he had gotten into the storage closest and stolen one of the adept's dresses. The Maiden had laughed and tightened the buckle that dipped from his waist, smoothing the shoulders before tapping him on the nose. When the All-Mother found him, the scolding she gave successfully erased that childish fancy, and he had never again worn anything save his habit and the occasional cheaply sewn fabrics that Yrsa had hazardously stitched together and dyed for him.

The allure of posing as a lord, son of a modest clan, had always been a tempting illusion that he forbade himself to indulge. To believe he could be worth anything more than a servant was arrogance and heresy. Still, how wonderful to imagine him a maker of magic, to walk through the halls with pride and his father's name. Everything was embodied in that simple vest, something that for a moment he could selfishly believe in.

"Well, don't just stare at it," Sirius admonished. "Try it on."

Dyre, caught out, startled. His hand, which had reached out towards the bed, jerked back as if burned. He looked up to Sirius with a small measure of fear, certain for a moment that his small shame had been discovered. Sirius gave him a bewildered look, and he composed himself, reminding himself that he was not Karkaroff and that no cane would break over his outstretched fingers.

He tugged on the trousers. They hung off his hips, much too big even buttoned. Sirius came forward, drawing his wand down the seams so that the waist went snug. They still fell a bit low but would no longer fall off when released. Dyre shrugged the vest over his undershirt, tucking his tails into the trousers. Sirius sat back to watch him dress, adjusting the fit when called until the buttons were secure across his chest. He set the wand aside to slip in the cravat.

Dyre allowed him to mess with the fabric, puffing it then patting it down. He held his face tightly, concentrating on the opposite wall.

"You know," Sirius said suddenly, adjusting the light cloth. "Draco thought you might have asked him to the Ball."

Dyre snapped his face to his, jaw stiff and eye ablaze. "I would never do such a thing!"

Sirius backed away, hands raised, startled by his vehemence. Dyre glared at him hotly before turning to the mirror, readjusting the kerchief with a violent yank.

"I thought you two got along," the man said in confusion, watching him from the mirror.

Dyre twitched and opened the dresser to grab his boots, newly polished and trim. When he didn't answer, Sirius pressed forward again.

"Don't you like him?"

"What I do and do not like is of no consequence," he snarled, thrusting the loose material of his britches into the hem of his shoes.

"You shouldn't treat him like you like him if you really hate him," Sirius retorted.

Dyre turned to stare at him, his mouth slightly agape, his hands frozen on his shoe. "Are you mad? I would never degrade him so."

"But… I thought," the man floundered. He growled suddenly, thrusting his hand into his long hair. "Why did you react like that if you don't hate him?"

Sirius came from an upper-class house. He should know why courting someone like Draco would be disastrous. Even if he wasn't a curse, he must see why his attraction to the young lord was wrong and shameful.

He turned from the man and finished with his boot. "I have no patience for this."

He let Sirius take from that what he would. He tucked in his other boot, and finishing the tail of his hair, grabbed his long coat, which served as a pseudo-robe.

"Wait."

He turned at the door. Sirius pinned a broach onto the cravat. His hand rested there for a moment, fingering the jewel, before drawing away. Dyre's breath caught when he saw it. Fixed in a frame of old silver was a large polished bloodstone. A ruby forged in the third lung of a dragon. Rolled and smoothed in the liquid-like organ, bloodstones returned not as a diaphanous gem but a milky drop of sanguine, the inside still tossing warmly even centuries later.

"I can't wear this," he said, moving to unpin the clasp.

Sirius' hand stopped him. "Please. I would like you too. No one knows it's mine so you don't have to worry about people connecting us or anything. I don't know if you know, but… I am… I was going to be… your godfather. I would really like you to wear it."

Dyre stood torn. Such refinery was not meant for him. A great part of him chafed at wearing another man's gem, like a claim, but if no one knew… Even if Sirius just wanted to play out the role of a beloved godfather, he could tell that this was something precious. By the way his fingers and eyes lingered he knew it meant something. Even if this was just a game, he could not bear to throw off such endearment, as surely as he could not reject the crude embroidery that Yrsa revealed to him when they were both so very small.

He nodded, letting his hand fall. Sirius looked relieved, staring down at him fondly. Dyre turned away, unable to bear the hope that blossomed there.


	12. The Yule Ball

_This is a valley of ashes – a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through powdery air._

~ _The Great Gatsby_ by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Hermione was quite beautiful. The wild crop of her hair had been tamed into honey curls. Pink pins twinkled from the mass, crafted into stylized blossoms. Dyre could tell that the diamonds were fake, but they were pretty nonetheless, pinching the hair into sugary falls. Her make-up was minimal, a shade of shadow around her eyes and shiny, fruity color on her lips. She had kept her shoulders free, the edge of her gown brushing in satin folds. The lavender dress was stunning on her lithe figure, emphasizing feminine curves and hiding modest breasts in cute ruffles.

Dyre had arrived before her, making sure to be early so she would not have to wait, so he saw her descend the stairs. Her brow was puckered in concentration, and Dyre suspected that she was struggling in unfamiliar shoes. Though having never participated in such reveries, he knew the etiquette of a gentleman and, while the others stared and whispered, approached her with his hand extended.

The movement startled her, and she looked up from her feet. She blinked at him, taking in his own transformation, before allowing her hand to slide into his. He led her off the final few steps, keeping her grace intact.

"My lady, you are most beautiful."

Hermione blushed. "My feet hurt. My head feels like a cactus, and I'm terrified that my dress in going to fall down."

Dyre couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him. "On my word, should such a thing occur, I will preserve your modesty."

She huffed, three ways amused, irritated and flattered. "You don't look too bad yourself."

Dyre nodded his head in proper gratitude. He pulled a kerchief from his robe. Hermione eyed the folded cloth curiously. Gently, he exposed the flower. He hadn't known what color she was going to wear, so he had opted for the safety of white. Professor Sprout had allowed him to debase her garden enough to pluck the plant, then a mere bud. It was an Isis, a flash of yellow licking the downy fluff of its tongue. It was young still and yawned in the open air, stretching its leaves.

Hermione, clever girl, knew immediately what it was. Dyre had chosen it (though there had not been a great choice of white flowers in Pomela's garden) mostly for its purity. Rumor was sure to follow her now, but this would curb some of it, symbolizing the chastity of his thoughts for her.

With Hermione's permission, he placed it in empty space above her left breast, adhering it with a drop of magic. She stared at it in amazement, fingering the petal lightly. The Isis shivered in a tickle.

"You're quite the man, Dyre," she whispered.

Dyre felt his throat thicken. He covered himself with a cough and offered his arm. They were the subject of much staring and speculation. Dyre, unused to such blatant attention, bore it beneath a stoic mask. Hermione was still staring at her flower, completely oblivious. McGonagall herded them behind Cedric and Fleur. Cedric and his date, a pretty Asian woman with a cascade of straight black hair, were completely caught up in each other, trading winsome remarks and flirting. Fleur's date, a Ravenclaw with rogue handsomeness, was fawning over her with very little dignity, while she preened. Couples skirted past them into the Hall.

Dyre thought of Draco. He had a slew of dates to pick from, most of which would probably worship him much like Fleur's Ravenclaw. As if reading his thoughts, Hermione spoke beside him.

"There's Malfoy."

His head twisted a tad painfully to where she nodded. He was talking in animated detail to a girl with shortly cropped brown hair. His movements bled with desperation and the girl looked more annoyed than adoring. Still, the blond was as gorgeous as he always was. He had disregarded slicking his hair, and it fell into his eyes. His formal attire was more traditional than Dyre's, though less pompous than what Sirius tried to foist onto him, which Dyre was beginning to suspect had been meant as a joke. His trousers were beige, seen in slips beneath his parted cloak. He had tucked them into baroque boots made of rich, dark green leather. Still in his outer cloak, Dyre could see nothing of his shirt and jacket, but he really didn't need to.

"You're ogling," Hermione stage whispered beside him, grinning.

He frowned down at her.

"You like him," she whispered again, hiding her lips from the crowd.

He surrendered his glare, staring into Diggory's back. "Such affections are inappropriate," he said stiffly, hoping she'd drop it.

Unfortunately, he had no such luck.

"You should ask him to dance," she said, staring around him at the young lord as he ranted to Pansy.

Dyre sent another more heated glare in her direction. She grunted and flicked his forehead, which made him blink.

"Don't you glower at me," she reprimanded. "I'm doing you a favor remember? I'm just stating my opinion."

"I would appreciate it if you kept such things to yourself," he said as respectably as he could.

She stared at him for a while longer before releasing a huff. "I know why he didn't bring a date now," she mumbled.

"What?" His gaze flew back to Draco, who had ended in an unhappy pout by the girl's side.

"That's Pansy Parkinson," Hermione informed him. "You'd think they were going as friends, but he shouted in the Hall just the other day that he wasn't taking a date."

"Why would he do such a thing?"

She quirked her eye. "Because he wanted to go with you of course."

He choked, his expression falling. "But, I could never…"

"Yeah, because you have to go with a muggleborn with no house alliances," she said offhandedly. "It didn't occur to you that maybe he doesn't care about that sort of thing?"

"He should," Dyre said, his face hardening.

Hermione rolled her eyes, muttering something about boys beneath her breath. He heard the tail end of "clueless as bloody bricks" before McGonagall motioned them to enter the Hall.

The house elves had outdone themselves. The entire Hall looked like a snow palace, something out of a winter wonderland. A fireplace blazed along the right wall. Though most the Hall was coated in ice and frost, the temperature was fairly warm. The evening early, candles floated in wreaths of holly. A chandelier glistened, suspended above their heads, reflecting small rainbows in the ice. An invisible band was set up on the dais where the teacher's table had been. Violins, cellos, trumpets, and a single baby grand piano rested silently, awaiting instruction from the squat Charm's professor. The walls, floors, and tables were draped in white, and the sky was set in the dusky colors of dusk.

A winter feast graced the wall opposite the fire, complete with steaming pineappled ham, pudding, pies, pasties, and parfaits. A strange machine at the end seemed to be spitting out hot cocoa, the marshmallows conducting mini battles with toothpicks along the table. A fountain of red juice cascaded over a sculpture of ice, filling a small pool.

Dyre listened to Fleur derail its majesty while Cedric and his date ogled with excited smiles and giggles. Hermione too was giddy, enthused to see her school decked in such finery. Dyre tried not to let his mood affect her.

The three partners circled the dance floor, taking position in a neat triangle. Dyre spotted his parents watching him anxiously from the crowd, looking more than a little worried. The werewolf and Sirius were there as well, the latter giving him a thumbs-up and a wink. Dyre slipped away from Hermione's arm to bow, sweeping his arm across his waist in the British fashion. Looking nervous now, Hermione bobbed a slightly clumsy curtsy. Taking a step forward, he took her hand in his, his other below her shoulder.

"Can you dance?" Hermione hissed rather belatedly.

Dyre allowed a smirk to grace his features as he held her at the appropriate length, waiting for the band to start.

"A bit."

Hermione's reply was cut off by the music. He tugged her alongside him, thankful that she met his movements. She was clumsy and watched her feet, but the song was easy, a light piano piece that required only the shifting swirl of a circle. Dyre made it no more difficult. Soon, Dumbledore asked for Madam Maxime's hand, guiding the much taller woman onto the floor. Others began to join as well. He noticed Sirius eagerly pulling the lycan out. The poor creature looked reluctant, enduring his lover's enthusiasm with very little grace. When the circle began to tighten, Hermione expressed interest in leaving.

Though a slight crevice, Dyre led them out. The crowd parted for him, allowing him to take the girl to a chair unmolested. Victor was loitering close by the door, watching with his arms crossed against his chest. He couldn't dance at all with his leg. Dyre nodded to him.

"Shall I get you something to drink?" Dyre enquired.

"Punch if it's not spiked yet please."

Bidding Victor to sit with her, he stalked over to the refreshments. Testing the punch (it seemed still too early in the evening for delinquency) he doled out one cup, glaring at any of the students that tried to approach him. Hermione sipped at it gratefully.

"Sorry I'm not much of a dancer."

"I do not enjoy dancing in such crowds," Dyre said. "I am glad that you wished to rest."

"I'm not tired," she said testily. "It's just these blasted shoes."

Setting her cup on the table, she pulled her foot into her lap. Neither Dyre nor Victor had seen such contraptions. There was barely any shoe at all. The heel was thin, silver strands buckled around the ankle. She undid the strap succinctly and tossed it off, performing the same to the other. She buried her feet in the snow beneath them. Dyre was rather amazed at her leisure. As was Victor it seemed.

She bristled under their gazes. She flourished the traps before them. "You want to try them on?" she dared.

Dyre bowed his head in retreat, but surprisingly, Victor tugged one from her head, examining it.

"Why would you wear such a thing?" lilt heavy with incredulousness.

"I don't know. Lavender gave them to me. I'd rather have worn sneakers."

"Sneakers," he repeated, tasting the word.

"Er," she floundered.

While Hermione struggled to explain the concept of a sneaker to the Bulgarian, Dyre felt someone approach behind him. He turned, preparing his best glare, when the expression froze.

"My lady!" he half exclaimed, rising to his feet.

Narcissa Malfoy smirked at him. Her triple pleated formal robes made her very royal. Her hair trickled from a majestic spire atop her head, glistening with pearls. A single lock curled perfectly above the swell of her right breast, clothed in golden gauze. The empire waist emphasized her slenderness, falling in opaque gold and beryl patterns. The gloves on her hand reached her upper arms, unspoiled silk.

"Dyre," she greeted, something mischievous boiling in her dark eyes. "How fare you?" Her gaze raked over him, widening her smirk. "I see my cousin managed to assist you in your attire."

"Yes, my lady," he answered.

She should know better than to associate with him in public. What would this make of her image? He was swine. Already, he could feel the stares and the whispers.

"I noticed you are a fair hand at step, little though it may have been," she said with a wry glance in Hermione's direction.

The girl inclined her head slightly, as if to figure something out.

"I would very much like to test your skill."

She… she couldn't be asking him to dance. He floundered for a moment, eyes wild with the despair of a cornered beast, before he remembered himself. He bowed, taking her offered hand.

"It would be an honor, my lady."

Inside, he was teeming. He didn't understand. Though, he doubted the north-men would reckon with the wife of Lucius Malfoy. He turned to her in sudden startling clarity. She grinned, pleased. She was trying to prove that he was one of them. She wanted him to be able to dance with Draco.

The song ended when they approached the floor, which was either a grand stroke of luck or clever planning. Dyre suspected the latter. He hoped she knew what she was doing because offering him a dance like this would really do nothing. She was a woman of affluence, but Draco was still a child by law and an unmarried one at that. He noticed Lucius tip a glass of sherry in his direction, egging him on. Dyre flattened his mouth.

"I do hope you can dance," Narcissa said as he carried her to floor, strangely devoid of other participants.

She was a few centimeters taller than him, statuesque and as elegant as an adder.

"Little late to ask now, my lady."

Flitwick seemed to understand the need of an impressive display and chose a fast quartet with two battling cellos. Narcissa moved with him like water. With the floor clear, he could almost imagine he was back in the tower, towing the Maiden alongside him into lands uncharted. Losing himself, he pressed her closer, forgetting the strict regimen of class. There were no allotted steps, only a pace set by the whims of a half-goblin with a conductor's baton. He swirled with her, playing.

He remembered.

Narcissa was taller, her back straighter, her hands tighter, her steps more practiced and flowing than free. She did not laugh. But it was only that that kept him from dreaming of the ever-flowing blossoms of that tree, of the diaphanous robes that used to brush against his cheek.

When the song ended, Dyre had dipped her. Narcissa had flung back her neck, her spine against his thigh, in perfect form. He blinked and lifted her up, moving the action into a final neat twirl. The Hall was split between awed silence and excited chanting and clapping. She was panting, flushed, her hair only slightly mussed for all that movement.

"_Most_ impressive," she said. Her husband stepped out onto the floor with a smirk and a drink. "Dear, we must have him at our next ball," she said as she accepted the sherry, fanning herself.

"Of course," he agreed. "Such talent can hardly go to waste."

Overwhelmed, Dyre bowed to them both and left the floor. Whispers and coquettish giggles arose. He was immediately snagged by Hermione.

"Oh my god!" she hissed at him, dragging him to their table. "That was brilliant! Where on earth did you learn to do that?"

He shrugged, in no mood to talk. He was starting to develop a headache. Hermione's next comment was cut off as a Hogwarts girl with lush blonde hair and a red dress approached him. Her eyes sparkled, and she clasped her hands together.

"Dyre, would you please dance with me next?" she pleaded.

Dyre opened his mouth to snap at her but remembered himself just in time.

"Of course, my lady."

She giggled girlishly and Dyre suppressed a groan. Damn you, Narcissa.

o.O.o

Damn you, Narcissa. He much preferred being a pariah. These girls pressed themselves far too close, and he was obliged to keep a civil tongue in his head. He did not twirl them about as stunningly as he had Narcissa, but it was too engrained in him to be anything other than graceful, though he was fairly tempted to step on their toes. He might have misjudged the woman. This seemed more an effort to torture him than anything else.

Luckily, Dyre was used to pain. His feet ached, and the muscles in his shoulders were starting to stiffen. It was amazing that serving as dance partner to these frivolous chits managed to exhaust him when not even serving as target practice to underage mages could. He could hardly get through a single song – his partner trying to catch his gaze by fluttering her lashes and flicking her hair – when another demanded his attention. They tried to coax him into idle chatter, to which he remained stubbornly resilient, and still there was no reprieve.

Dyre was unaccustomed to other's hands, and though gloved, they were most unwelcome. He strove valiantly not to hex them, debating ripping their hems and crashing them in other partners. The dark thoughts served as pleasant illusions but no more. He had some model of decorum to uphold, servant or not. This had to be some sort of test from Odin. Yrsa, possessive child that she was, would certainly have saved him by now. He expected no such altruism from Victor.

"Excuse me, Miss Lisle."

Dyre turned. Albus Dumbledore was smiling at him, the ducks on his plum robes throwing him waves and puckered kisses. A tall traditional wizard's hat crowned his head, bending over beneath its weight like rabbit ears. The rubber duck at the end matched his robes. It snickered at his expression, hiding it orange beak behind a yellow wing. The girl stared at him as well, a French maiden who was probably as unused to the headmaster's insanity as he.

"Might I steal your partner?" he inquired with a quiet smile.

She nodded mutely, able to do nothing else. This could not be happening to him. He was not dancing with Banebringer's Defeat, and he certainly wasn't dancing with a man with ducks on his robes. Absently, he moved to take the submissive role.

"Would you mind leading, my boy?" the old man said, moving to his shoulder. "I'm afraid these old bones aren't what they used to be."

He definitely had a headache. This was unbearable. Still, he could hardly press the point. Instead, he dutifully kept his mouth shut. He was much too distracted to do anything other than keep pace with the other dancers, leading the ancient wizard through the bodies stoically as he fought off a migraine.

"Headache?" the headmaster inquired pleasantly.

He glared over at him.

"You look like Severus whenever he is particularly irritated with me."

"Remind me to offer Professor Snape my condolences," he said, his first words since stupidly allowing the blonde to drag him onto the floor.

He giggled. The ole crook giggled at him. "I would advise a bubble bath. Bubble baths do wonders to clear the mind."

Dyre grunted inarticulately.

"And the heart," he added.

The north-man glanced at him, but Dumbledore revealed nothing but an infuriatingly simple-minded grin.

"I would advise a potion for dementia," Dyre suggested offhandedly.

He laughed. "Most delightful, my boy! Between you and Severus, I shall never be bored."

Dyre closed his mouth to rein in his scorn. He was not a toy, and he would not submit himself to being another headmaster's plaything. Fury burned through him, but he reminded himself that this man had helped nurse him and had promised to speak on the board of governors on his behalf. It was only that that kept him from storming off the dance floor, though his scowl forbade further conversation, something that Dumbledore, thankfully, heeded.

When the dance ended, Dyre noticed that no one seemed willing to step between him and the headmaster. He used the reprieve shamelessly. He bowed.

"I must see to my date, headmaster," he pardoned himself. "I have left her idle for far too long."

"Of course, my boy," he said, though something regretful and sad rang unpleasantly in his tone.

Dyre ignored it, stalking past the gossipmongers and fellow dancers. When he found Hermione, she was embroiled in pleasant conversation with Victor, explaining the merits of some muggle device called a telephone.

"I apologize for making you wait," he said as he took a seat.

She waved him off. "Not at all. Taking a break?"

He glowered, actually hissing at a girl that dared to approach the table. Hermione watched him appraisingly.

"I see," she said in a low tone of voice that he could not place. She fell into silence.

Dyre felt vaguely guilty for disturbing their discussion. Victor hardly ever spoke to other people, an outsider because of his lowbrow heritage. Though he was infinitely more socially acceptable than Dyre. He had confided once that girls made him nervous, more so the screaming fans that accosted him on the rare occasions when he allowed himself to loiter outside of Durmstrang and his lord's estate. Karkaroff might enjoy doting on him because he was an international figure, but he had duties the same as any student and foster case.

The candles shone in a wicked splendor now. Night had fallen and the ceiling was a mesh of dark blue. The light of the half moon was split through the chandelier, lighting only in sparse moments on a single object. He wanted to take off his boots and stick his feet in the snow like Hermione, but propriety forbade it. It was a little after ten. He had been dancing for two hours straight and felt as weary as if he had just run a triple marathon around the Crystal Lake. His head was pounding, and he devoted all is effort into keeping his eye from twitching.

Flitwick stopped the band. There was a round of applause as the little man bowed. Dyre could barely see him gesture to the side, where a woman, decked in a diamond studded black evening gown was gaining the stage. A wild fuzzy crop of hair adorned her head. Deep maroon paint colored her lips. Long lashes, slashed with kohl, crested wide, blaringly white eyes. She was lovely, the diamonds around her neck like a spider web, gown hanging without noticeable seam over wide hips and long, sensual legs. Her arms, soft warm cocoa brown, were bare.

Band members strode in behind her, taking the place of the empty instruments. They set camp on stage, tuning basses and playing with strange trumpet-like instruments that Dyre had never seen. The brass and gold of the horns were ornate, making peculiar calls like geese as they adjusted tone.

Hermione sat up straighter beside him. "That Reetha Malcolms," she said in an exaggerated whisper. "Oh, Dumbledore didn't tell anybody!"

"Who is Reetha Malcolms?" Victor asked quietly beside her, pronouncing the name with care.

"She's a jazz singer. Oh, she's one of the best!" she said, hopping about the chair excitedly. "I can't believe we booked her!"

Neither Dyre nor Victor had heard of jazz, but from the students now crowding the dance floor, it seemed to be rather impressive. Dyre listened to the woman give an introduction, tongue lolling in a slang that he was unfamiliar with. Her throat was husky, much lower than Dyre was accustomed to, lush like thick pinewood smoke. White teeth flashed from brick lips, and the dark gaze of her eyes drawled wetly. Dyre might have tasted some succubus in her.

A band member gave her her wand, which had no allotted place on her drooping attire. She coughed discreetly, pointed its tip to her neck, and smiled at the audience. Her voice came as slowly as a bass, rolling thickly on the vowels. It was some love song, about a city made of wind. The quick, jumpy steps of Filius' piano were replaced with languid motions, the less experienced dancers taking root in the slow rhythm.

For the moment, Dyre was left alone. He tried not to let his mind wander, but Hermione was once more in conversation with Victor, surprisingly looking no more inclined to dance than she had before.

"… _floating beyond time, there's a city made of wind. Please dear, ta~ke me the~re_."

The singing was easily drowning him. He spotted his mother watching him, worrying the napkin in her hand and responding cryptically to her husband behind her. He wondered why she had had no more children.

"… _where dreams draped in white flowers, can bloom_."

Surely something to fill the void would have been better than waiting for the dead. But then, she had clearly said that he couldn't understand her pain, and he agreed. Her sorrow was deeper than he had the strength to fathom.

"…_holding anxious hands, calm me with a kiss and then please, dear, get me there_."

Why was he still here? It was impossible for him to live up to their expectations even if he wanted to. He should have stayed on the ship, contest be damned. He should have stayed in Iceland, Karkaroff be damned.

"_A~nd darling, in the afternoon, we'll sleep in the sun a~nd wake to a time when the hun~ting is do~ne, and then when I see you, I'll know in my heart what I've won_…"

Why was he still here?

"_Please dear, ta~ke me the~re_."

"Excuse me?"

Dyre looked up, only half-surprised to see his mother staring down at him anxiously, her eyes flirting everywhere but on his face. Hermione turned from her discussion to blink at her.

"Um, if you wouldn't mind, would you mind dancing with me? Just for a bit."

Dyre should say no. Not only was he physically and mentally exhausted but allowing this woman further hope for something that could not be was cruel. Crueler even than refusing her gesture now. Yet, still, he had seen eyes like those before. He had seen them on other mothers right before the news of their sons' deaths reached them, the single moment when beyond reason they cherished the possibility that everything else in the world but their love was wrong. He had seen it in the serving girls right before they realized they were nothing more than a lordling's plaything, to be discarded in boredom.

Lily Potter loved him far more than he feared, far more than anything he could possibly derail.

"I know that you're tired," she was saying into the awkward silence of his contemplation. "And that - I really shouldn't have bothered you. It was - I'm terribly sorry, Dyre."

She started to retreat, and Dyre could see the tears she was bravely withholding from view. Damn him. Damn him all to Hel.

"My lady," he called after her, rising from his seat. "I am afraid I do not know much of jazz dancing," he said, spilling the words awkwardly.

"No, no," she said quickly, masking brushing against her eyes by taming the bangs on her face. "I really – You could step all over my feet," she jested tensely. "I wouldn't mind at all. I just – I just really don't want you to force yourself."

She was much too kind, far too compassionate for him to resist. So he held out his hand, crushing his many reserves into a tight box with his hatreds and fears, and pulled a regal smile out from a memory of the Maiden.

"I am hardly forced."

Stunned into silence, Lily took his hand. Dyre didn't know what he was doing. How did one act with a mother he'd never known? There was a painful gap between them that he wasn't certain should be healed. He thought about what the Maiden would say and almost laughed. She would tell him he was acting the fool, that he should follow his heart, and do everything that made him happy until it couldn't any longer. But that is where he and the Maiden differed. She was so much stronger than him. She had the strength to withstand Her dying dreams, the vision just out of reach, and he did not.

His sadness weighed him down as he tried to dance with his mother. She was not as talented as Narcissa, but he suspected hardly anyone was. Her hands gripped him in intervals with her thoughts, and she seemed incapable of looking him in the face. She was much too tense, though Dyre's sobriety was hardly helpful.

"Would you mind if I ask you a question, my lady?"

She looked over, startled. "Not at all."

"What will you do when I return to Durmstrang?"

Predictably, the question caused her to flinch. Still, Dyre wanted to know, and he wanted her to know that this dalliance was evanescent.

"I'd probably go with you," she answered to his cravat.

He blinked. "My lady, that is not possible."

She jerked her gaze back up, glaring at him with a stubborn tilt to her jaw that he was very familiar with.

"And why not?" she dared him.

He was both elated and annoyed by her change of emotion. Though her glare was a fair sight better than her frown, it was most certainly more nettlesome. He couldn't tell her that she was too weak for the school, that she would be defenseless against the battle hardy mages, or that there was no place for her among the tutored elite. Her empathy would dry her out faster than she could run away.

"I am old enough to need no sitter," he said instead.

She did not seem to like the reminder but did not argue. She ducked her head again, eyes shining.

"And if it is for me, not you?" she whispered. "Even if I can not be your mother, Dyre, may I not still be near you?"

Dyre's scowl deepened. He pushed her out in a slow spin for a moment to claim his expression and pulled her back in. Dyre was not worth this much thought. He was not worth such endearment.

He did not want her there. She was safer here. Here was stable. Here, an insult would not call you into a death duel. Here, there were laws that forbade the abuse of the weak. Here, she was allowed to be gentle and kind. Justice was so different in the northlands. It would allow none of her sentimentality.

"Now is neither the place nor the time for this conversation," he settled for saying. "Forgive me for bringing it up."

Her face flushed with the urge to argue. She was unused to holding her tongue and letting her thoughts stew, unlike Dyre, who long had to temper his loathing. It was wrong of him, he knew, to treat her like a child, but it was difficult when even Yrsa knew how to control herself in such circumstances. He reminded himself that Lily Potter had been through a war, had watched her child die, and the notion of her naïveté was stricken from him.

The song finished on a long peal, Reetha Malcolms' voice outlasting the bass. He took a step from her. He pressed her knuckles against his forehead, as he would for any married woman, and thanked her for the dance. Her eyes were just as troubled as when she had approached him, mouth creased into an unhappy line that made her look as if she was about say something unforgivable. Yet, she again managed to restrain herself.

"Thank you for the dance, Dyre. It – It meant a lot to me."

She tried for a strained smile, but her eyes could not hold in his face. Dyre felt the urge to brush the hurt from her face but quelled it. Such notions he restricted to the Maiden and Yrsa. He could not get attached to her.

His throat was parched. He had yet to take from the fountain. Since he was a part of this party and not acting as a servant, he supposed he was allowed its use. With a glance towards Hermione, who was being carefully watched by Victor, he strode to the refreshments table. The red juice trickled from the ice fountain in soft melody. The neck of a swan was serving as a pipe. Small ice chicks floated about the pool, casting juice from their crystal-like wings and playing chase. Dyre dipped in a ladle.

"I wouldn't drink it," a voice said behind him. Draco looked up at him, his hands clasped behind his back. "I'm sure it's been poisoned by now."

Dyre set the cup down.

He could see Draco's waistcoat now, a rich green leather that matched his boots. It was modest for a lord of such wealth and prestige. A tiger-eye was set in gold, pinning together his collar, which seemed a tad too restrictive. The inside lining, a soft smoky silver, was seen peeking in places. His undershirt was not unlike Dyre's, except that it was cuffed with amber links and the pleats were ironed much more meticulously. He must have doffed his jacket somewhere.

His hair looked so soft up close. It brushed the back of his nape but hung no lower. Strands hung over his brow but not long enough to obscure his sight, which gave Dyre brilliant view of blue crystal. They seemed slightly red rimmed, Dyre noticed, though it was hardly obvious. His lips were just a tad too pink, as if he had chewing on them. Or kissing.

Dyre had never thought about it before but Draco could be courting someone. At his age, it was likely that he had a fiancé. Though he had taken no one as a date. Were they fighting?

"My lord, are you alright?" Dyre found himself asking, staring at him much too intently with his eyes narrowed.

Draco blinked. "Yeah, fine," he stuttered a bit. He coughed, blushing. "How is your date?"

"Well," Dyre answered, trying to detect whether or not he sensed some resentment in Draco's comment.

He nodded succinctly. Dyre wished he would look up at him instead of staring at his knees.

"How did you two meet?"

"Through Lord Longbottom."

"Oh."

Dyre was getting frustrated. "My lord, will you please look up at me?"

Draco's gaze flew to him, and Dyre suspected that he hadn't realized he'd been having a conversation with his trousers.

Dyre sighed, feeling the tension leak out of his body just by seeing those eyes. So ridiculously bright.

"Much better," he murmured. "Please, pardon the interruption. Please continue."

But Draco seemed floored. In the midst of his gaping, Dyre spotted Trinten Klaus, a young German lord, coming through the crowd towards the punch bowl. Dyre moved aside before he could be shoved, gracing the lord with a tight subservient bow. Trinten glared at him much the same way someone might glare at dung on their trousers. So far Dyre had managed to avoid the Durmstrang students by camping out in the forest. Being able to outwit a dragon had done nothing for the hatred of having their school represented by a clanless bastard.

Trinten was an honorable lord in his opinion. Though the mysterious murder of his elder brother, he had inherited his father's estate and worked both to complete his studies and manage the affairs of the governors that ruled the counties in his jurisdiction. Trinten had been born into his title, but he believed in the sanctity of rulers and held himself with an air of authority that matched his rank. He had had no qualm with Dyre when he was a mere servant, but as an upstart, Trinten viewed him in rebellion of the old ways. Many of the lords and ladies viewed him thus, with right.

When Dyre straightened from his bow, it was to see Draco sneering at Klaus. The two lords glared at each other. The Malfoys might own a greater district than the Klauses, but Draco was as of yet untried and really had no right to be glaring like that. Dyre knew of no contention between them, though he was hardly watching either twenty-four/seven. Had some insult gone unmarked? He watched Trinten's eyes narrow further, appraising the English lord with an upturned lip.

In response, Draco suddenly grabbed Dyre's arm and hauled him away towards the end of the table where the cocoa machine lay. Dyre allowed the manipulation with some curiosity, enjoying the swift clever heat of the blonde's ire.

"Who does he think he is?" Draco raved, flinging his arms in that dramatic manner of his. "He thinks he's better than you just because he's royal!"

"He is."

The statement stole the gust from Draco's sail, and he deflated almost comically. He turned wide blue eyes to him.

"Pardon?"

Dyre watched him with his single eye. Had Draco gotten upset over his account? Well, that was just… It was cute actually.

"The decisions that Lord Klaus make affect the lives of roughly three thousand people, not including his retainers. My decisions affect no one but myself."

"That doesn't mean he's better than you," Draco argued, eyes flashing sullenly.

"Doesn't it?"

Draco remained sullen. "No."

Dyre laughed. "I find you most refreshing, Lord Malfoy," he said at length, grinning.

Draco looked quite unsure of whether or not he was being teased. Dyre admired the mixture of indignation, confusion, and pleasure warring on his face. He had crossed his arms and turned away, but the light gesture of a smile wrinkling his eyes betrayed him.

"I'm afraid I neglected to mention that you look very handsome tonight."

Draco's eyes shot over to him in that way that he so adored, like a startled hare. Then came the inevitable blush that colored only the tips of his ears.

"I didn't really do anything," he mumbled, fiddling with the length of his unslicked hair.

Dyre fought the urge to take his hand from him. "Your beauty is far too natural to be anything other than free."

The young man's blush escalated, but he managed to raise his gaze to look Dyre in the face.

"As are you."

Dyre blinked. He should probably take insult to such a thing. He knew if anyone else had said that, he'd be furious. Yrsa made small quips about it in odd moments when she was braiding heather or untangled yarn, and it still bothered him. Freedom was a guise he could not take. He considered rousing his anger, but if it had not responded on its own then he considered it a mute point. Instead, he was filled with a sharp sorrow, like a pike being buried in his chest. He stared at Draco for a long moment, in which the boy seemed to regret his words but was unwilling to withdraw them.

"Touché," Dyre responded ambiguously, dipping his head.

"I – I'm sorry, Dyre. I shouldn't have said that."

Dyre shook his head. "You are free to say whatever you wish."

Draco gave a small, uncomfortable chuckle. "I think that's part of the problem."

Dyre's smile was much gentler than he expected. "I would have it no other way, my lord."

"Dyre, can I dance with you?" he suddenly blurted out.

The north-man chuckled at his abruptness, which Draco covered with an embarrassed shuffling of his feet. He threw caution to the wind.

"I would love to, my lord."

Draco brightened, still slightly pink. Draco's hand was bare. It was just as fair and slender as when Dyre had plucked it up in the hall when he had been mute. Just as unmarred as it rested against Dyre's calloused, stocky one. He pretended that he wasn't comparing Draco to silk because he had never felt silk and would know nothing of its texture. It was silly to so admire a hand, even if it was attached to someone as beautiful as Draco Malfoy.

Reetha Malcolms was taking a break, and Flitwick was once more instructing the instruments. As Dyre and Draco neared the floor, Dumbledore tapped on the half-goblin's shoulder, politely drawing him off the stage. The old wizard swept back his robes, perching himself on the seat before the piano. With a kind, reminiscing smile, he stroked the ivory keys. As he continued to merely sit there, Severus gave a huff, climbing on stage.

"If you've forgotten the tune then don't just sit up here making a spectacle of yourself," the man grouched, settling on the bench beside him.

"No, my boy, I was just waiting."

Severus gave him a patented scowl. Without accompaniment, the Potions master started playing. The touch of pinioned strings was heavy, the notes cast deeply in castes of seven. The baritone was even, melodious. Dyre took Draco's shoulder, but the blond shook his head, adjusting him so that his hand was behind his blade. Dyre looked at him carefully, but Draco's eyes pleaded, his smile slightly crooked before he turned his gaze away. Dyre allowed his hand to stay.

Severus' hands moved, striking the lighter keys in a rhythm of twos. The scowl was still visible on his face, but his attention was directed solely on the instrument. Dumbledore sat smiling beside him, his hands in his lap.

Dyre could feel the muscles moving beneath his fingertips. He had danced with so many people tonight, it should have been common, but the subtle shifting seemed suddenly sultry. The movement of bone could have sported wings. He could feel that Draco knew how to dance, that his mother had reared in him the same love of movement and attention.

Dumbledore took the heavy keys, tapping them with a single long finger as Severus played. Three deep baritone peals, stretched apart as if miles away.

Dyre moved between the notes on single steps, pulling Draco with him. Odin, were eyes went to drown you? Could so many tones of blues exist in the world? Was it possible to swim between them forever?

A third dulcet pattern joined the two, but Dyre and Draco barely heard it, even when Dumbledore added other keys and the two men began to take turns with their notes and coalesce. Then, suddenly it was just the first playing, Severus with one hand on the keys while Albus knocked together the heavier notes, strangely alone in their resonance.

And Dyre and Draco were dancing in tradition, right hands palm to palm, left behind their backs. Moving in a circle and switching hands in time with the piano. And Dyre would draw out their arms, catch Draco on his fingertips, and pull them together. He'd twirl him around, push him backward hand to hand. Their feet were tied to Dumbledore's fingers.

It was not the wild, excited pace of his dance with Narcissa, where he imagined the petals falling pink between them, a sky that was white instead of blue, with a cool breeze dissecting space. Where he was a land away and someone else was in his arms.

Two blue were on a single green.

They could feel the breath moving through each other's bodies. There was a tightness in their chests, and they moved deliberately to quench the ache. Even when they pulled apart it was only to come back closer - limbs, sides, hips, thighs together. Together, they were slow, long caresses, breaths mingled. Apart, they moved quickly to experience that wonderful moment when - yes, he's still there. He came back. He's still here beside me.

Severus was playing alone once more, but as the song came to an end, Dumbledore, adding one final cleft, let the song hang on a dark echo that fell like a soft shadow over the room.

o.O.o

There was some clapping, which Severus responded to with his usual scowl and Dumbledore with a bow. When the observers looked back at the floor, Dyre and Draco were gone.

…

Lyrics belong to _Kaze no Machi e (To the town of Wind) Eng. Version ~ Kajiura Yuki ~ Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles OST_

Piano piece belongs to _All Around Me ~ Shane Clahoun_


	13. Why Then

_love is the voice under all silences,_

_the hope which has no opposite in fear;_

_the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:_

_the truth more first than sun more last than star_

_- do lovers love? why then to heaven with hell_

~ _love is the voice under all silences_ by e. e. cummings

The fire crackled in the hearth. Dyre stood above it, picking the logs with a tined spoke. Draco fiddled lightly with the curtains of the bed behind him. It was unbearably warm so close to the fire but Dyre didn't pull himself away. The orange coals knocked against each other like dragon teeth. The logs sagged, blackened with yellow heat.

He felt guilty about abandoning Hermione, though Victor seemed strangely happy to fill the role of escort for him. He was sure she saw him departing, clever thing that she was, but still propriety should have bade him stay.

While he thought, it seemed Draco had had enough of the awkward silence. He approached the fire. He ignored the well-furnished, antiquely upholstered chair and knelt down on the carpet. He was close enough that the fire dance across his eyes. It took no time at all for a flush to rise on his pale face. The heat played in his hair, plucking rare strands of copper amidst the gold and silver. He crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap.

"Join me?"

Dyre moved to Draco's left. They stared into the fire. After a moment, Draco let out a loud sigh and collapsed against his side, resting his head on his shoulder. Dyre was unsure of what to do. He was woefully inept as this sort of thing. After a long moment of stiff reserve, he rested his cheek in Draco's hair. He smelt of shampoo, some herbal formula that Dyre was unfamiliar with but reminded him of leaves. He closed his eyes, imagining mountain ridges, the sky and a multitude of things wondrously blue.

Draco shifted, the knees of his pants getting burned. He drew his legs to his chest, holding them there with his arms. Dyre was struck with the sudden desire to remove Draco's shoes and feel his ankles. His fingers twitched with the ache to run over the strong muscle of his calf. He wondered what his wrists felt like. He wanted to sit atop him and just stare.

He wanted so much it hurt.

"I want to kiss you," he said, memorizing the feel of the head beneath his, the cheek against his shoulder, the forearm pressed into his.

"I really want to kiss you too."

Neither moved, resting against each other in almost perfect bliss. Eventually, the words sank through the heat of the room, and Dyre tensed. Draco watched him with a strange vulnerability in his gaze, and Dyre was struck suddenly by the lack of confidence there. He looked nervous, and Dyre wasn't sure that he liked it.

Dyre wasn't thinking as he moved up to his knees. Lifting the lordling's chin slightly with his finger, he watched how Draco closed his eyes and parted his lips ever so slightly to breathe. There was a crease in his brow as if he was thinking really hard about something. The muscles in his arms were twitching, and he was playing with his fingers. Still, he kept himself in place, eyes closed, trusting, and waited.

Dyre didn't know much about kissing. He knew that it was usually sloppy, accompanied by rough grunts and rutting. He knew that he hadn't wanted anything to do with it. There was only one instance when he had not been thoroughly repulsed. The adepts of the Tower were forbidden interaction with men. Dyre was a strange exception, tolerated by the Maiden's irreproachable will, and he still had to purify himself before crossing the grounds. All of the adepts were virgins. Still, there was a secret shared by all the inhabitants, something even the strictest of All-Mothers did not breach.

There was no courting, no declarations, certainly nothing as forward as a public kiss, but Dyre had once found all-sisters Bekah and Halldóra ensconced in each other's arms on the way to the pantry. For a moment, before he hastily scurried away, he had thought they looked rather pretty like that, their belts abandoned and the laces of their tunics loose enough to reveal their shoulders.

Dyre didn't like men. They were cruel, crass creatures more often than not. At one point in his life, he had been so ashamed and scared of himself that he had almost mutilated himself. Though it had been a phrase he had grown out of, still, he knew better than to look for beauty amidst the throes of man's rapacious sex. He knew better, so why was he so drawn to one now? Why did it feel so impossible to leave him alone? Why was he so overwhelmed by the expression on his face, something like the birth of a hatchling or the first bud of the season? Why was he so enraptured?

Why wasn't he scared anymore?

He had always associated men with violence. But Draco looked so warm and welcoming, not at all like Victor or even slender Fredrick, the mousy man who managed the school's accounting, just as athletic if not more so as Draco. Why did he have such a hard time imagining any sort of cruelty from him?

Still watching from hooded eyes, he closed the distance between them. Such softness was surely not meant for men. There was no way that they were meant to survive such things. Dyre's lips were chapped. He could feel the way they crinkled against Draco's, which might as well have been rose buds. He felt the breath shudder its way past his lips and into his own. He felt Draco's fists bunch over his legs. He felt his mouth moving.

He felt Draco restraining himself from pouncing across the distance between their bodies and demanding the tongue from his mouth.

He smiled at the thought and lost even the small part of him that thought this was a horrible and irresponsible thing to do. The hand tilting Draco's chin went to grip the back of his neck. It brushed over his hair, moving through the tresses to grasp both the heat of his skin and the silken folds of the locks. Feeling his way through the kiss, Dyre pushed Draco back, lifting his head to take more of his mouth.

He was damned for this. Godsfire, if this was Hel… If this was some type of trick or jest, let it come later. Let him burn but not now.

He nibbled on Draco's lip, unable to retreat from the petal softness, just like the blooms of the tree in the courtyard of the Tower. Draco was braced on his hands, his legs having given way when Dyre crawled into his lap. Dyre's other hand was cradling his cheek, rubbing circles with his thumb. Sure that Draco's lower lip was perfectly bruised (and his heart could take no more), he drew away. Draco's eyes were so deeply hooded that only a small spark of color remained.

Dyre could hardly believe that he could touch such a thing, forgetting anything about men and women and humanity. Draco looked perfectly debauched, the flush from the fire having blended with his panting. His lip was just as swollen as Dyre imagined, as if stained with pomegranate juice. A hint of saliva clung to its corner, glistening in the fire. Though his hair was fair, he had inherited his mother's dark lashes, resting now in bare slits.

He didn't know what to do with him. His hands were filthy, his intentions deplorable and selfish. And still, they strayed to his sides, massaging the lax muscles of his forearms. Dyre watched him try to focus his gaze and pressed their foreheads together. The action startled Draco slightly, who was still reclining between his splayed thighs.

"You make me…" Dyre started to say but shook his head.

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't Draco's fault that Dyre was so enamored, that he had never felt this way before. He would not blame the fire for the moth. He didn't want to let go. He was burning from the inside out, and he still didn't have the strength or the intelligence to let go. He didn't have the selfless compassion to escape intact. What would the Maiden think of these base actions?

But he knew She would smile at him. He knew She would give him Her blessing in everything he did because She loved him much more than he loved himself. She would touch his temple and let him be free. He was sure that She would love Draco. He was sure that if they could ever meet, the Maiden would love his spirit, his innocent arrogance, the belief that the world existed for the sole purpose of such delights as freedom and love.

He wanted to tell Draco to never leave, but he couldn't. Dyre had no place here. This was not his home. No matter how much he loathed him, he was bade to follow Karkaroff. Perhaps in another lifetime, they could have lived together. Maybe in another lifetime, Dyre could have just _been_, instead of playing marionette and martyr. But that was not his Skuld.

"I make you what, Dyre?" Draco asked softly, peering up at him.

Too trusting. Too honest. Too close. Too, gods damn him, there and warm and welcome.

"It's nothing. I'm just a fair shade short of my wits tonight."

"Would you like to go to bed?" he asked then blushed at his implications. Still, he refused to take it back or correct himself, staring at Dyre with a stubbornness beyond pride.

Dyre couldn't disallow a smile. He reached up to stroke Draco's cheek. If he was going to Hel, he was going to the deepest ring, the farthest pit. Anything to continue lying here against him.

"I've been sleeping in the forest."

Draco scowled at him. "On what? Leaves? It's safe here you know."

Dyre shook his head indulgently. "The forest is more than accommodating."

"Do you not like the castle?"

He huffed as his persistence and cocked his head wryly. "Do you not like the forest?"

The lord crinkled his nose. "It's dirty. It's cold. Bugs are everywhere, and who knows what's waiting to eat you."

Dyre laughed and collapsed over to his side in a disarming motion, freeing Draco's lap. "You can smell the earth," he said, taking a deep breath of burnt wood and carpet. "Everything is alive with movement. Not for a moment is anything silent. The world is singing to you. The sky is wide and open and when it is clear, full of secrets and wisdom. You are never alone."

Draco was silent a moment, and Dyre feared that he had revealed too much. Then, the boy crawled over onto his stomach, regarding him with his head propped on his hand and his ankles crossed above him.

"It doesn't sound so bad when you say it like that, but I think I'd still prefer for crawlers to stay out of my pants."

"Seems a fair trade to me," the north-man responded.

Draco shivered dramatically. "I woke up with a cricket in my pajama bottoms once. That was enough intimacy from an insect to last me a lifetime."

Dyre smirked.

They talked into the night, chaperoned by the fire. Things of little consequence. Eventually, the early hour became too much for Draco. His head was slumping against Dyre's belly, lids drooping. Dyre watched him put up a valiant effort to stay awake, but the drowsy warmth of the room and Dyre's lilted voice inevitably overcame him. Dyre observed him in slumber for a bit, gaining simple pleasure in the pulse of his lungs and the steady motion of his back, the slight patch of drool that leaked past his lips to soak his shirt.

It was no effort to slip out from beneath him. Knowing that Draco was probably unused to the floor, he coaxed him into his arms. Draco mumbled in his sleep, moving easily into his grip. He was heavier than he looked and a deadweight. Still, Dyre, with a grunt, hoisted him up and onto the folded sheets of the bed. Draco curled in on himself, rubbing his face into the pillow like a contented kitten. Dyre slipped off his shoes. The fabric of his trousers looked too expensive to sleep in, but Dyre was only willing to push decorum so far. He did relieve him of his waistcoat, doubting that Draco could sleep comfortably with it still on, though he seemed rather unbothered by anything at the moment. Dyre tucked the sheets around him and with a whisper, dimmed the fire.

As the room darkened, Dyre couldn't help but marvel at the peace that swathed him. Out of tune with everything but his own illusions, Draco seemed to be made more from myth than flesh. The moon was now on the other side of the castle and only the low hues of the dying coals illuminated his face. Dyre brushed the hair from him, kissing the bare flesh of his forehead.

"_Á morgun, litli herra_."

He left, closing the door behind him softly.

Draco shifted, pulling the sheets higher on his shoulder. "Good night, Dyre."

o.O.o

The train was scheduled to depart from Hogwarts the morning after the Yule Ball. Really crappy scheduling, Draco mused, as half the student body stumbled about the school in post-drunken stupors from random unlocked classrooms and miscellaneous dormitories sporting last night's spotty dresses and robes. Draco watched them mingle at breakfast, collapsing into porridge and too dim-witted to sneak pepper-ups into their pumpkin juice.

For his part, he looked perfectly refreshed, having stolen time in Dyre's shower and calling in the spare uniform he kept tucked away in a pocket of between-space just for such occasions. His hair was damp and unstyled, and though easy rectified with charms, he hardly felt the need. He knew that Dyre liked it better without gel.

He had to admit though, that despite his outward appearance, much better than most his peers, he felt hardly refreshed at all. He wasn't at all sure that the liberties he had taken with Dyre last night wouldn't come back to haunt him. Already people, the few that were marginally functional, were sending him inquiring glances. The purpose of his mother luring the north-man onto the dance floor had been to allow Draco to ask for his hand without appearing overly interested. That had been the plan.

But, even after all this planning and effort, Draco still hesitated to approach him. Part of him was still reeling that Dyre had asked some strange girl to the Ball instead of him. It was difficult for him to describe Dyre's appeal now, sitting in the Hall with none of the darkness and whiteness of elegance to surround him. Other than his raw talent for movement, which really made him attractive but not enthralling, Draco could not remember what had held him so enraptured, enough so that he had forgotten even the simple ire of seeing others touch him so freely while he could not or the deprecating jealously of standing aside while Hermione Granger escorted him into the Hall.

And when Draco had finally bumbled his way through asking him to dance, he had forgotten everything he was supposed to do. He had wanted to say so many things to him while they were dancing. He had planned to comment on Severus' ability to play the piano. He had thought of a wonderful joke that was sure to appeal to Dyre's dark sense of humor. He had planned to ask about the golden egg and very subtly about Miss Granger.

But he didn't. He wasn't sure if it had been a choice or just something that fled from him the moment he had guided Dyre's hand around his waist, determined to let him know that he saw him as an equal. He had always planned to say something, but there just hadn't been a time when he was willing to break the tension between their bodies.

Merlin, he had felt everything. He could smell Dyre so finely it was ridiculous. A crisp taste like morning and wet pavement mixed with a scent like evergreen but softer, not as pungent. He could taste the light fragrance of dust on Remus' jacket, the soapy tendrils of freshly washed skin.

And the press of him. Strangely gentle, like part of his nature forbade him from coming too close, even with his fingers. Touches that mounted as they continued to dance, the hand at the small of his back taking more space, thighs brushing, arms crossing chests.

It was only in the coming morning when he realized their mistake. They had been far too lost in each other, far too obvious. Draco should have stayed to handle the rumors that were sure to follow. Of those from Hogwarts, perhaps only the Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws would be interested in the politics of the arrangement, but he was known for conquests, some of which were true and other pure fastidious myth. Few would truly understand the outrage of it. The French would gossip over the scandal, too estranged from the issue to truly care. However, it was the Nordic students that worried him.

No, their infatuation had not been overlooked. Most the Durmstrang students sat at the Slytherin table, and of those, most were sending him haughty, hostile stares, the most prominent from Headmaster Karkaroff, who looked like someone had cursed his mother's grave.

Draco could give two flying fucks whether they approved, but he was sure Dyre hadn't wanted this to be made public, if not at least because of his schoolmates aggression. Second because he might not want to be in a relationship with him at all. They hadn't actually talked about it, and Draco knew enough not to assume anything from a kiss or even a full night of conversation. Though ensconced in the warmth of the fire they had been amicable - perfect really, he mused a bit sadly - such things coming to light, he knew from experience, were different.

Draco wasn't even sure he would know how to date someone like Dyre. He went into relationships confident in knowing what he and his partner wanted to get out of it – which was of course sex but also someone to talk to when he got bored or needed a distraction but wouldn't get clingy. He couldn't even think of Dyre in something even near that category. And he wasn't at all sure where this was going. Dyre had to leave when the tournament was over. Even if Draco could convince him to stay, his bond to Karkaroff overruled him.

So what the hell was he doing? This was so… not smart. Severus had always told him that any Slytherin and lord worth his salt never went into something without knowing what he would get out if it. But the thing was, he didn't want anything from Dyre, at least not anything material. He wasn't even sure he really wanted something physical, at least not purely physical, because he knew that if Dyre wanted him only because he was pretty and a good fuck, he'd probably lose it.

Merlin, that thought hurt.

He only knew that he wanted to be with him for as long as he possibly could, and Draco had always been one for selfish indulges.

"Forgive me for being late, my lord," a cultured, accented voice said to his side.

Draco started from his thoughts, thankfully able to retain his hold on his fork. He stared as Dyre waited for his acknowledgment, single green eye shining darkly.

"Late?"

"For breakfast," Dyre clarified with a soft, sly smile. "I had planned to escort you."

Draco gaped. "You did?"

"If it is permitted."

"Uh, yeah," he stammered.

Belatedly, he realized that Dyre was still standing. Though unnecessary, he scooted over, nudging his plate. Dyre allowed him a gentle, open grin and slid in beside him, pulling the back of his robes gracefully as he did so. Draco watched him in somewhat of a daze as he prepared his plate.

Something was different. He wore the same patchy, ill stitched black clothes, his scar peeking past his patch. He was clean, poised, and dark, just like always. Suddenly, it struck him that he was sitting beside him and not opposite him.

He looked away, sure that if he kept staring he was going to start kissing him or say something silly. Still, a private, pleased smile lightened his face. He pushed the eggs around his plate, unable to consume anymore with the butterflies in his stomach. It was difficult to control the urge to sit in his lap or grab his hand.

"You are quiet," Dyre noted after a long moment, in which Draco tried to stop fiddling with his food and fingers.

"Sorry," he said automatically.

Dyre sent him a wry look and returned to his fruit. Merlin, hadn't he just been thinking about all the things he wanted to tell him or ask him about? What were they? He couldn't remember.

"Why were you late?" he settled for saying after various unsuccessful groping.

"Professor Sprout caught me coming out of the forest and requested assistance."

Draco frowned. He had been in the forest again? "You know there are acromulas in the Forest, don't you?"

The corner of Dyre's mouth twitched across his cup, an herby tea that blew in wisps over his upper lip.

"I am aware."

Draco glared at his nonchalance. "And nightgaunts and black annis and red caps and strixes and the Danu?"

Dyre regarded him with that single-eyed stare, very much like Severus whenever he thought Draco was acting exceptionally, most often inappropriately, playful.

"You know many of the creatures in the Forest. Have you been in there by any chance?"

Draco watched that eye glimmer. Was he teasing him?

"You're going to get carried off by the sidhé," he grumbled, poking mulishly at his food.

Dyre's lip quirked in a manner that betrayed him.

"It's not funny!" Draco snapped, irked that his concern was being brushed off so casually.

"Forgive me, my lord," Dyre said around pressed lips, his eye dancing. "The Danu dare not lead me to their courts. I was merely wondering if you had once fallen into such a predicament yourself."

Draco blushed and proceeded to return to his abandoned plate, busying his tongue with his empty fork. Dyre did not press, though he was forced to cover his mouth with his hand to control his mirth. His shoulders shook minutely.

Draco, unable to control himself, smacked his shoulder. "It's not funny!" he shouted again, accidentally grabbing the attention of the people around them.

"Of course not, my lord," Dyre agreed, rolling his lower lip. "That would be… absolutely horrible."

Draco felt himself turn redder. This was so not fair. He huffed, turning away so he could hide his face in his knuckles. He was hot to his fingers.

"Would you tell me the story one day, my lord?" he implored, once he had subsided a bit, impressed by Draco's embarrassment.

"No," the lord pouted.

However, he made the mistake during the silence of glancing over. Dyre was staring at him curiously, eye still dancing like a nymph, head tilted and face unimaginably kind. He grunted.

"Though I'm sure Sirius would tell you even if I told him not to. Heaven knows he never lets me forget."

He mumbled it into his fist, eyes flirting across the various heads in the Hall and not on Dyre. The light touch that greeted his knuckles startled him, and he turned overly quickly. With hardly any pressure at all, Dyre drew the hand from his face, placing it on the table. Draco continued to stare at him in a stupor.

"If I may," Dyre said with a light, winsome smile. "I enjoy seeing your face. I would prefer you not to hide it."

Draco blinked at him. That had to be… one of the sweetest things anybody had ever said to him. Dyre held nothing but sincerity, making the line infinitely less corny and irritating had anyone else said it. Draco had never been shy or modest in his life, but in the face of such raw intensity, he couldn't help but lower his eyes, the feeling in his chest tightening with both pleasure and embarrassment.

He thought he had finally met his match in courting.

"I, uh, I'm not sure I can do that, but, um… thanks." he fumbled and coughed.

Dyre opened his mouth to say something else that Draco was sure would only increase his incompetence when a loud fist slammed next to the empty plate across from them. Draco jumped, far too caught up in his emotions to have noticed the boy's approach. Dyre's reaction was much more subtle.

The softness on his face changed, the mischievous aura fading into apathy. It was almost cruel to watch the loss. Though his beauty remained solid, the approachability was gone. Draco buried the hurt, knowing it was foolish to feel alone when he hadn't moved.

A stolid river-rock eye met the northern lord leaning over the table. The plate rested upset beside him, the goblet tumbled. Fury reigned in a blue gaze, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He glared down at Dyre with no less outrage than a wild boar. The students around them turned to watch, the teachers at the table stiff at attention.

"You think you're important now," Farkoff snarled, eyes flitting like a snake as spittle clung to his lower lip. "You think because some goblet spit out your name, you can act like a warrior. You don't deserve to sleep with the dogs. You think you can sit at the same table as us, you filthy mongrel," he snarled, his angry keeping his voice low and spiteful.

"I forget nothing," Dyre said in a calm voice, watching the lord with an even if hostile stare. "This is not Durmstrang."

"So you think you can break all our laws!" Farkoff responded hastily, barely letting him finish. "You are a bastard in any country!"

Draco bristled, mouth open, but Farkoff drove over him, flinging his arms so that he almost hit his two cronies.

"If this land had any honor, it would throw you out with the animals."

Dyre stood. "A lord would do well to remember that he is a guest and as such should not insult his hosts!"

Farkoff laughed, though it was a brittle sound shaky with malice. "A fatherless son of a whore would do well to remember that he knows nothing of his betters. If your own family cast you out, what makes you think they would welcome you here?"

Dyre remained silent, having no answer. Draco dared a glance at the Potters. James' face was a mess of rage and sorrow, warring with his voice and kept quiet only by Dumbledore's urgent whispers across the table. Lily looked too horrified to be properly angry, and Remus had been forced to take a hand to Sirius to keep him still. Draco's parents remained thoughtful, watching the boy handle himself alone, taking the insults against himself stoically

Draco stood.

"Dyre has been welcomed into Hogwarts because he is a brave and valiant fighter. With or without a father, he has shown more decorum and decency than you. Is this what Durmstrang has to show of its warriors?" he sneered with his mother's indignation. "That anyone is unwilling to see such talent and honor is a disgrace."

Dyre (and more than half the Hall with him) blinked. As the whispers started, Draco's glare resilient on the lord, Farkoff gathered his bearing enough for a leering sneer.

"So this is a bastard's honor," he jeered, eying Draco like a piece of meat. "Hiding behind the skirts of seiðr to England's child lords now? Eh, _egri_?"

The northerners gasped. Even Dyre looked stunned. Suddenly, the hall burst into foreign tongues, the Durmstrang students screaming in Germanic and Scandinavian languages, Russian and, in the case of Victor, Bulgarian. Teachers flooded to the Slytherin table, trying to keep the Hogwarts students from being trampled. The women had removed wands and daggers and were shouting alongside the men, split down the table between Farkoff and Dyre.

"Silence!" Dumbledore thundered, silencing everyone but the northerners, who ignored him to continue spitting curses and threats in harsh languages.

"Blood!" a boy demanded in English. "To the blood!"

"To the death!" shouted a girl.

Draco's heart caught in his throat. He had lost Dyre, and with the Durmstrang students still clawing and trying to throw each other across the hall, he had no chance to find him.

Karkaroff dragged two boys from each other and shouted in Russian, eclipsing Dumbledore in volume only. The students, trained to do so, stilled, though they did not stop throwing glares and snarls and did not sheath their weapons. The headmaster growled again in Russian and dropped the lads.

"I declare Holmgang!" rang Dyre's voice.

He stood in Lockjaw's and Crowley's grip, his nose bloody and eyes dripping hatred. Farkoff laughed.

"You milkmaid," he jeered. "You don't even possess a sword. This is why you are _argr_."

Dyre's nostrils flared. He clawed at the hands holding him, driving desperately for Farkoff's throat. The boys lost their hands, as happened when holding wild beasts. Farkoff met him with a smirk, taking his fist in his own. Dyre brought up his knee quickly and winded him.

"Dyre!" Karkaroff thundered.

Dyre stumbled over his next blow, his legs tying themselves together, fist raised and frozen. He growled, spitting syllables more beast than man.

"I have the right!" he shouted at last, furiously.

"You're a filthy bastard," Farkoff snarled.

"I offer my sword," Victor said suddenly. He stepped forward and unbelted his sheath. In the eyes of all the hall, he pressed the blade into Dyre's hands.

Dyre gave him a grateful but serious nod and turned his stare back to Farkoff. The lord glared.

"Even slaves have right to demand Holmgang," a girl said angrily, glaring at her fellow. More students backed her.

Draco didn't understand what was happening. How could Dyre be holding a sword? How had trading insults turned to this? He didn't even understand what had been said.

"Your filthy hands smear a sword," Farkoff spat but he straightened. "But so be it. To the death."

Dyre's eyes were steel. "To the blood," he said. "I will not deprive a house of its lord, even one as cowardly as you."

Farkoff's eyes blazed and he moved to accost him. Victor stepped between them, his wide shoulders and chest enough to dissuade even spells. He frowned darkly from his massive brow. Farkoff spat.

"A dog will bark and bite, but it is still a filthy mongel. I will have your tongue when I gut you."

"You will apologize to the English lords in this hall," Dyre said in agreement. "Even a dog doesn't slight that hand that feed it," he added with a horrible sneer.

Farkoff stepped around Victor to approach. "When I have your tongue, maybe I'll send it to your pretty lord. So as not to deprive such a pretty thing the pleasure of a dog's kiss."

Dyre's jaw clenched so hard that it was obvious he was trying not to bite him. Farkoff spun away and out of the hall, his cronies scurrying after him. Dyre gave a swift look to Victor, and they too left, sparing nothing for their watchers.


	14. Nobler

_Have I a lover_

_ Who is noble and free?-_

_I would he were nobler_

_ Than to love me._

~ _The Sphinx_ by Ralph Waldo Emerson

The duel was set on the ship, legally part of Iceland. They had fought relentlessly, but only Draco and Lucius had been allowed aboard since they were the ones taking reprimands in Dyre's favor. Not even Dumbledore was permitted entrance. Lucius couldn't even scrape James by as his bodyguard, having been warned by Victor that asking for a guard would have been highly offensive.

A gruff man, likely part-dwarf, sat over the proceedings. The circle had been drawn with stones, each carved with specific runes. Lucius could make out only a certain encryption that forbade sorcery from interfering with the match, the others lost in centuries-old translations.

Draco had asked that it be to first-blood. Having made his decision, he couldn't help the set of nerves that made him fidget beside his father. He looked more nervous than Dyre, who was wrapping his palms in gauze. Farkoff was outfitted in vambraces, his duelist uniform oiled and sturdy, all leather and no metal. Dyre was in his habit, without shield or guard. The only preparation he made was in trimming back his bangs to free his good eye. He looked oddly vulnerable with just a Viking longsword, and the ease with which he handled the blade, gripping the single-handed pommel, was barely comforting.

The proprietor from the tribunal stood with little interest, waiting for them to step inside the ring. The deck glowed with a single white light that quickly faded like the flash of a camera, illuminating the space between the runes. Lucius felt the ambiance rise like a ward, and he realized that neither man could leave now without blood to appease the rights.

He wondered if the small crowd gathered at the shore with omnioculars could feel the power emitting from the stones or feel the tension that rose, like a palpable presence, between the combatants. The blades rose in left hands.

Dyre held the grip to his breast, gaze fierce but face slack. Farkoff was more cocky, his hold loose and an ugly smirk playing on his boyish face. Dyre bowed. Farkoff did not.

"You were stupid to challenge me."

Dyre rose from the bow, nonplussed, the sword by his side. When it became clear that he would not reply, Farkoff scowled.

"Lost your tongue already, you miserable cur?"

"I am waiting for you to finish speaking, my lord. I was under the impression that we were here to duel."

Farkoff's face darkened. His lip curled in anger, and the grip on his pommel tightened. By the way the boy raised his arm and left his flank exposed, he expected Dyre to be inept, which would have made this duel pathetically short. However, the lord revealed some training. Dyre parried easily, the tip of the sword sliding along the iron in sharp _shing_. He flung the blow aside, using the lord's momentum to turn himself, attacking his exposed back.

Farkoff continued the aborted motion, saving himself a slashed back. He rounded along Dyre's back, and the boy moved quickly to part them, facing him once more. The surprised look on his face was almost amusing, but the gaze turned critical. He would not underestimate Dyre again.

They fought. It was not an art or a dance. The motions were often crude, but neither paused again, moving instinctually to preempt the blows. They staggered, feinted, and rammed against each other with enough force to make Lucius wince. They parried in brutal thrusts, but never did they stop. Lucius followed the movements better than his son, marveling at the blatant disregard for fighting regulations. There was little elegance in the brawl, the swords sometimes abandoned in favor of digging in an elbow or sliding out a foot.

Farkoff's blows were not intended to wound. The duel was only to first-blood but first-blood could be a thrust through the heart, a slash across the neck. He didn't know if Dyre's curse allowed him to take the brat's life but Farkoff had no such restrictions. Already, Lucius had spotted three opportunities when he could have struck Dyre's thigh or the back of his hand, but he wasn't taking them.

But neither was Dyre. He didn't know what the boy was fighting for, but he defended himself desperately, thrown to the ground twice but not unarmed once.

Farkoff's foot kicked his legs out from under him, and he landed on his back. The older boy quickly bore down on him, aiming for his neck. Dyre threw up his blade, catching the sword at the hilt. The metal made an angry sound of protest that hurt Dyre's teeth, the impact burning the bones in his arm. They grabbed at each other's grip, snarling like beasts. Dyre kicked his legs, trying to find purchase to throw him off.

Farkoff laughed, pressing all his weight towards his throat. Sweat coated his upper lip and forehead, breath heavy with grunts.

"You're so weak," he grinned, nostrils flaring. "You're nothing but a lord's plaything. You were born worthless and you'll die worthless. No one will remember your name. You don't even have a name!" he laughed.

Farkoff was bigger than him, and Dyre was soon forced to bare his neck, tilting his head backwards to avoid the blade. The pressure of Farkoff's seat made it difficult to breathe. Draco gripped his father's sleeve. Lucius grabbed his arm to hold him back.

Dyre thrashed and threw his shoulder. Farkoff was tossed off. Dyre rolled, hand pressed to his throat. Blood threatened to seep through his fingers. While Farkoff gained his feet, he ripped the gauze off his hand with his teeth. He had to abandon the sword, dodging an attack, to wrap the bandage around his throat. He kept low, crouched, spinning out from beneath Farkoff's blows. He stanched the prick, and the duel continued.

Dyre was entirely on the defensive, fending the blows with nothing more than tact and agility. Farkoff had little care for stealth now and swung unrepentantly, a gruesome smile overtaking his face.

"The slave dances!" he taunted. "Tell us, oh mighty Dyre, how does it feel to be a lord's whore? Does he favor you with a kiss when you suck his cock?"

Dyre ducked and fell to his stomach. He rolled, and the sword hit the deck with a thud.

"Or does he just pound you into the bed? Is that how you got to stay in the castle, spreading your legs for the old man?"

Draco and Lucius fumed, but the expression on Dyre's face did not shift. Farkoff laughed and made his mistake. He over-extended the reach, and Dyre went into his guard. He pressed the heel of his hand upwards into his jaw, knocking him back. Stunned, Farkoff allowed the sword to be kicked from his hands. A blow landed in his gut. He doubled, winded. By the time he looked up, Dyre had a sword at his throat.

He stared up, his eyes full of hate. He panted, holding his stomach. There was no pleading, no begging, no desperate crawl backwards. Farkoff looked him in the eye, waiting.

The blade hovered. Dyre's gaze was dark and merciless and without victory.

"Chained mongrels still bite."

He slashed the sword across his throat. Farkoff gaped like a fish. Blood spilled onto the deck in a heady splash. His hands scrabbled at his neck. Dyre stepped back, allowing Karkaroff to take him to a healer. The scar would not be healed but he would live. If he still had his voice was another story, and he lamented that he had stolen Draco's apology. Dyre flung the blood off the blade with a flick, brushing it with the end of his habit.

"Well played, Harry," Victor congratulated.

"My thanks for your sword, my friend."

The proprietor stepped over the puddle of blood, unperturbed by the teeming color. "Dyre Harald Durmstrang is the victor," he said in an apathetic voice. "You may put in your request for a sword."

He handed off the appropriate paperwork and left for the floo in Karkaroff's study. Dyre held the parchment. The stamp of the Icelandic tribunal, the three crests of the ruling lords, graced the top, and beneath the long paragraph of legalities and rights was the space for his signature.

Dyre knelt. He coated his finger in Farkoff's blood, delighting in the oily texture, the slick juice of it. He smeared it across the line. The blood coalesced. In his handwriting, garnished by filling ledgers and writing reports, was his name. Dyre Harald Durmstrang.

He was a warrior.

o.O.o

The first thing Lily did when he got off the boat was try to mend his throat, but he waved her attention off tersely. Then, he was pulled into a tight embrace by Sirius, which lifted him off his feet.

"That was bloody brilliant!" the animagus shouted.

Dyre disentangled from him awkwardly, pulling on his habit.

"Yes," Severus said. "The display was impressively blood-thirsty."

That quieted Sirius for a moment and made his parents look very uncomfortable.

Dyre shrugged. "He will live."

"You must want a bath, Dyre," Dumbledore intercepted tactfully.

He inclined his head, allowing himself to be maneuvered to the castle, the others trailing in silence. England was too soft a land. Still, he felt the heavy weight of Draco's stare behind him.

o.O.o

The house elves had the bath ready by the time they reached his rooms. The group scattered, congratulating him again though Dyre had to wonder how much they meant it. Soon, only Draco lingered, standing nervously at the door and biting his lip.

"Would you like to come in, my lord?"

Draco hesitated, but he wasn't sure when he would see the boy again. Dyre had a penchant for running off into the forest, and Draco wasn't sure he wanted to breach the wood in search of him. He entered, looking down at the floor.

Part of him was exuberant and proud that Dyre was now a warrior, that he could own a sword, that he could now demand respect amongst his peers. But the other part was still terrified. Severus had explained what _ergi_ and _argr_ meant. He still couldn't quite understand a culture that dueled over being called unmanly. It was silly and archaic. What's more though, he had to wonder what Dyre thought of him.

He had to admit that he had inherited his mother's features. Dyre wasn't thick and broad like the northerners, but he wasn't as slender as Draco. Draco treated his hair and his hands. He hated dirt, and he'd much rather be in front of a potion or a book than a sword or ward.

And he was attracted to Dyre. He hadn't considered that his attraction might be considered unmanly before. He didn't give two shits about preconceptions like that. But Dyre… He had slashed a boy's throat open over being called unmanly. Did he think Draco was weak? Disgusting? He'd kissed his hand. Did he think he was womanly?

He looked up, startled to find himself alone. The bathroom door was open.

"Dyre?" he said, sticking in his head.

He squeaked when he saw Dyre naked in the bath. He pulled himself behind the door, apologizing. Dyre's chuckle was faint. He heard the water slosh as he moved. When no reprimand came, he ventured to peek inside the room again.

Dyre was lounging in the tub, steam floating off the water. The patch around his eye was discarded, his hair sprinkled with droplets. The water was clear, his body entirely visible beneath it. Draco tried not to stare, standing awkwardly by the door.

"You can come in, my lord."

Draco wavered, staring into his mismatched eyes before lowering his gaze and entering. He sat on the toilet lid, folding in his hands in his lap. Dyre watched him for a long moment

"Are you too troubled by the manner of my victory?" he asked softly after a long moment.

Draco stared at him. "No," he said honestly.

Dyre's gaze was quick and piercing. Draco swallowed but did not shy.

"Then what ails you, my lord?" he asked.

Draco looked away, unable to speak

He heard the water move. He tensed, preparing to be thrown from the quarters. A hand gripped his face, leaving a trail of damp of his jaw. Dyre turned him so they were facing, his eyes more serious even than when he had cut open Farkoff's throat.

"What bothers you?"

Draco swallowed, heat pooling in his groin. "Do you think I'm weak?"

Dyre's fingers twitched. There was only surprise in his face.

"Why would I think you weak?"

"It's just…" he said painfully. "I'm not a warrior like you. I don't fight or… And… I'm… submissive… to you," he trailed off, unable to look at him.

Normally, he didn't mind that he imagined men riding him. He hated words like "submissive" though. Most people, he learned, had no idea what that word meant. He hesitated to use it, but he couldn't go into the details of what he wanted to say. That sometimes he yearned to have Dyre folded on top of him with his hands holding down his wrists. He blushed just thinking about it, an odd reaction from a man like Draco.

He didn't know what Dyre would do after that word. He didn't believe that weakness and submissive were linked. Not at all. Many times, he'd had partners who admitted that Draco could control them while he was spread beneath them. But, he had never been attracted to someone with such a cultural gap.

He felt vulnerable. He almost couldn't believe that he was standing there waiting for Dyre to reject him.

Dyre kissed him. It was soft and hot, and Draco relaxed automatically into the soft motions, closing his eyes.

"I was raised by women," Dyre said. "I am a servant. Yet, you still believe I can see weakness in something as beautiful as you."

"But…" Draco stammered.

"Farkoff's insult was unacceptable," he said roughly, scowling. "Some believe that lying beneath a man is… _argr_," he said, seemingly unwilling to even use the phrase in a sentence. "And if anyone says that to you, I will kill them," he promised.

Draco gasped, unable not to believe him.

Dyre touched his cheek. "You have honor. You have such beautiful honor, and lying beneath a man will never diminish that. Besides," he said, leaning away. He rubbed a washcloth across his neck. "You are English."

"What does that mean?" Draco demanded, affronted.

Dyre smirked. "Your warrior is different than my warrior. Here, you do not have to kill men to be a warrior."

Draco rolled that in his head before accepting it begrudgingly. It was silent a moment save his bathing, and Draco allowed relief to coil through him. He leaned against the rim of the tub, watching the Norseman.

"So," he said. "Does this mean that we can call you Harry now?"

Dyre paused, hand caught in wiping away the crust of blood at his neck. It had already started to scab.

"You may," he said eventually.

Draco frowned. "We don't have to if you don't want. I thought you'd like having a warrior's name now."

Dyre dropped the cloth back into the water. "Whatever pleases you, my lord."

"Whatever pleases you," Draco huffed at him.

Dyre gave a small laugh. "Then, I would prefer you at least call me Dyre."

"Why?" the blond said, a little hurt that he was being excluded.

"Dyre is the name gifted to me by the Maiden. If the world knows me by Harry, I would like you and Her to know me by Dyre."

Draco stared at him in shock. He ducked his head. "Then, can you call me Draco instead of all that my lord stuff?"

Dyre smiled. "When we are alone."

Draco leaned forward. "We're alone right now."

Dyre's eye sparkled with humor and a soft emotion that Draco would dare to call affection.

"Draco," he rolled in that rich baritone.

The blond smiled in pleasure. He pressed their foreheads together, unsure if Dyre would mind him snogging him but certain that if they started while the darker boy was naked, he'd lose all manner of himself. He left, allowing the northman to finish bathing, proud of himself for taking the risk in approaching him. He shut the door and hovered, pressing his hand into the wood. A delighted smile brightened his face, and he continued down the hall.

o.O.o

Most the holiday was spent inside Hogwarts, seeing as how Dyre could not travel far from the ship. However, Lucius managed to invite Dyre to the manor for Christmas Eve, where the group usually spent their festivities.

Dyre did not usually celebrate Christmas. He would stay in the Tower for solstice, watching the chants of the all-mothers and the ritualistic bone-fires. Then, he would retire with Yrsa and the Maiden, weaving heather into bracelets and charms. He was fairly sure such mediocrity would not be welcome among the highbreds, and he had no money.

He spent the time when Draco was called for duties with his father wandering the Forbidden Forest. He talked to Morgan, but human traditions were lost on the centaurs. He was miserable at things of this nature. He knew they were going to give him gifts. That's the type of people they were, and not to mention they were all rich. He had an illegal dagger and a single outfit to his name. Even his habit was property of the school. How was he going to deal with an excess of gifts?

He supposed it would be the same way when Professor Snape and Sirius Black foisted all those clothes off on him. He'd thank them and set them aside, trying not to feel ungrateful and wasteful. He didn't think he could manage so well this time.

Truly, he wanted to at least get something for Draco. But really the boy had everything in the world. What could Dyre possibly give him? By the time Christmas Eve came, he was still hoping for inspiration.

Malfoy Manor was a splendid place, sitting on a lonesome estate with vast plains stretching out for miles, impeded by small wind buffers, which were little more than skeletons in this season, and a heavily rutted dirt road. As soon as they apparated, Sirius transformed into a Grim and started chasing the peacocks.

"Goddamn it," Lucius muttered in a rare moment of impropriety.

Narcissa touched his arm, graciously not allowing her mirth to show. So very little upset her husband, but those silly peacocks were a guilty pride of his. Lucius' eyes followed the outskirts of the manor, seemingly trying to find any strewn bodies. This happened every year, and admittedly, Sirius had yet to even maim one. He trotted back, his black form blunt and abrupt in the snow, tongue lolling and ridiculously smug. Lupin shook his head when the beast butted his hand, smacking his nose.

The animagus continued to jump around them excitedly, just managing not to nip at Dyre's sleeve. Severus conjured a muzzle, and Sirius disappeared behind Dumbledore, who chuckled, allowing himself to be used as a shield.

They were halfway through the wards when Dyre stopped suddenly on the path, prompting Draco to halt beside him.

"Something wrong, my boy?" Dumbledore asked.

Dyre turned his head, looking at a small crop of trees. To everyone's bewilderment, he broke from the path, trudging through ankle deep snow. Draco followed at a small trot. Dyre parted the bushes, shaking the snow from the leaves.

"What are you looking for?"

Dyre held up a finger, his gaze intent as he tried to listen. Suddenly, with agile grace, he pulled himself up between two birches, wrestling with the branches.

"What on earth is he doing?" Lily whispered.

There was a small screech, and Dyre swung himself higher, struggling to corner an animal they could not see. There was a small belch of blue flame and another distressed shriek. Dyre moved his tongue in the rough, husky meter of lizard-speak and cupped his hands around the creature. They watched him cajole whatever beast into his palms where it seemed to slither up his sleeve. He swung himself down from the tree.

"What was it?" Draco asked curiously.

"A wood-wyvern." He looked to Lucius. "Is it allowed to take it inside the manor?"

"Wood wyverns hibernate," Severus said.

"It hatched late. It cannot keep warm."

Lucius nodded. "But I expect you to look after it."

Dyre gave him a strange look. "Of course, my lord."

"May I see it?" Draco said eagerly.

"Inside first, Draco," Narcissa chided.

They scurried inside, dropping their coats for the house elves to take. Draco crowded Dyre, the Potters, Remus and Sirius not that far back. Dyre shed his cloak and unbuttoned the doublet, pulling back the collar to reveal the small dragon nestled on his shoulder. The wings were folded tight to its body, its scales like pearl, speckled with small bits of ash. It was tiny, just a hatchling, easily able to rest in the crook of his neck. It hissed and slid back beneath the fabric.

"He is very tired," Dyre said.

He cupped the area where the wyvern had curled.

Severus sniffed. "There will be plenty of time to gawk at the creature like idiots later."

"Would you like for me to create a bed for him, Dyre?" Dumbledore offered kindly.

"My thanks," he said, inclining his head since bowing would disrupt the creature, "but that will be unnecessary, Headmaster. He would flee into the manor if unwatched, and I would prefer not to cage him if it can be helped. He is content now to merely rest."

Dumbledore nodded, something like pride brightening his wrinkled face.

"That is very kind, my boy."

Dyre's brow creased, and Dumbledore retreated, not wishing to make him anymore uncomfortable. Draco reached over and rebuttoned his doublet.

"Come. I want to show you my room."

Draco took his hand and dragged him up the stairs, ignoring his half-hearted protests about propriety. The heir's room was a suite, the color scheme a cream and blue that suited Draco very well. A portrait of a relative, a middle aged woman with a sweet disposition and quick eyes, glanced up at them from her reading. Expensive baubles and silver candelabras coated the mantel, the rugs of intricate design. Porcelain vases, filled with magical floram rested on bookcases, lined neatly with copies of the tomes in their library. Floor to ceiling windows lent way to a veranda and an excellent view of the grounds, coated romantically in white.

Draco pulled him through the foyer into a side room that hosted a much more intimate setting. The blues became darker, merging into navy and sapphire. The mantel was less ornate and a seascape adorned the walling, empty of everything except for white dunes and serene waves. Long grass shifted in a breeze. A fire had been lit, a single couch positioned directly before the hearth. There was only a small window set beneath an eave close to the ceiling. The only bookcase was dotted with dog-eared novels with worn paperback spines.

Draco released his hand, letting him wander.

"The bedroom's through that door," he said, indicating the single oak frame. "There's a guest bedroom on the other side of the foyer with your own bath… if you wanted to stay here that is."

Dyre approached the shelf, picking up a book. He could read only the title and the author without his glasses, making out the shapes of the cover art.

"What creature is this?" he asked

Draco shifted nervously. "Well… it's a, uh… It's an alien."

Dyre stared at him and looked back at the novel. "I do not understand."

"It's science fiction. Muggles write fantasy and manage to get everything mixed up," he said with an irritated sneer. "But no one really knows what happens, you know…" He pointed up. "I can't really understand most of it," he admitted. "But a lot of it is really… interesting."

"You like the unknown?" Dyre said.

Draco's nose crinkled cutely. "I guess. Sort of. I just don't like fantasy because I know it's wrong."

Dyre seemed to find something in that statement terribly funny and laughed. Draco watched him, and when Dyre quieted, Draco was still watching him.

"Hey," Draco said. "Can I kiss you?"

Dyre looked at him, a small smile curled the right corner of his lip. "If you would like."

Draco took his hand, leading him to the couch. Dyre followed his gestures to sit. He coaxed the wyvern out of his doublet. It flew lazily to the mantel, curling up on the warm stone. Draco climbed into his lap, resting his arms to either side of his head. With a happy smile, he leaned in to kiss him.

Dyre's hands rested gently on his thighs as he allowed Draco to kiss him. The blond soon had his hands wrapped in Dyre's hair, trading their tongues to suck on. Dyre followed the movements languidly, learning by mimicking. Draco kept the pace slow, enjoying being able to feel him but also trying to consider how far Dyre would be willing to go.

He broke off to trail feathery kisses along his jaw. Dyre's hands were at his waist now and seemed content to stay there. His green eye was dark, shining fiercely. Draco stared down at him, looking for that smolder that spoke equally of pleasure and humor. It was there, gracing his face with a sharp and soft kindness that seemed reserved for Draco alone. He sat back on Dyre's thighs, his hand trailing his cheekbone.

He hesitated then raised the patch over his eye. He brushed his knuckles across the long scar. Dyre closed his eyes with a sigh, a noise that Draco thought sounded remarkably like abandon.

"You're beautiful," Draco murmured.

Dyre opened his eyes. The stare was deep, and Draco felt himself being held in the gaze of a creature instead of a man. A shudder ran through him, but he smiled, loving even that mysterious part of him.

"As are you, Draco."

Many people had told Draco that he was beautiful, and he was. But it had never made him feel humble before. He moved his legs to sidle closer to his chest, tucking his head so that he was beneath his jaw. Dyre's arm came around his back, holding him. The other crossed his stomach, curling around his hip. Dyre rested his cheek in his hair, humming something that Draco did not understand.

He knew better than to tell Dyre that he loved him. It was much too early for that, and if he did, the boy might run. He could not stay, and he did not want him to feel bound.

Which, wasn't that amazing in itself?


	15. Christmas Presents

_Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,_

_Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;_

_Resembling sire and child and happy mother,_

_Who, all in one, one pleasing do sing:_

_Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,_

_Sings this to thee: "Thou single wilt prove none."_

~ _Sonnet VIII_ by William Shakespeare

Christmas that year was on the night before the full moon. Remus was aggressive and possessive, though the fact that he was around the people that he considered family helped tremendously. He didn't really have anyone to be possessive against and settled for touching as many people as often as possible, which made Severus very irritable, Narcissa and Lucius rather jumpy, and Dumbledore absolutely delighted.

Something about Dyre unnerved him though. When they sat down to dinner, he found himself staring at him, his hackles rising for no reason that he could fathom. Dyre ignored it, though everyone else was shooting him furtive glances. It made for a very awkward atmosphere.

Eventually, Severus set down his fork. "Lupin, what is wrong with you?"

The werewolf, who had been frowning at Dyre, started. Then, he just looked confused.

"He senses another Dark creature," Dyre said, finishing the last of his soup – vegetable, he noticed.

"Not this again," Severus grumbled, returning to his food.

"You are not a Dark creature, Dyre," Dumbledore said.

"Perhaps not but the magicks around me resemble a Dark creature, and it confuses the were in him."

"I don't think you are Dark," Remus protested.

Dyre stood suddenly, and Remus was up in his chair, pushing himself in front of Sirius, an ugly snarl on his lips. It faded instantly, replaced with a shamed look and a blush. Dyre sat back down.

"Don't tease him like that," Draco said reproachfully, frowning at him.

Dyre inclined his head. "My apologies. I would attack no one here, Master Werewolf," he said, addressing Lupin.

"I… I didn't mean to… I'm sorry," he floundered, staring miserably at the table.

"It is of no consequence. The were knows that I am dangerous."

"That's no excuse for…" he trailed.

"For losing control of your instincts," Dyre finished, little inflection in his voice. "I apologize again. I should not have teased you. It was untoward of me."

Remus did not respond. Sirius tugged his sleeve, getting him to return to his seat.

Lily coughed. "So, Dyre… where do you usually spend Christmas?"

"In the Tower," he said, taking a bite of broccoli.

"I was under the impression that only women were allowed in the Tower," Severus said, watching him carefully.

"Certain men can be purified and enter the outer domain with the Maiden's permission."

"What kind of men, Dyre?" Lucius asked curiously.

"Eunuchs and virgins," he answered, taking another bite of broccoli.

The table went quiet. He took a sip of water.

"You're not a…" Sirius petered off, making a face and a gesture.

"Not a what, Master Black?"

Draco hit the back of his head. "You're teasing us again," he accused.

Dyre couldn't help the smile that lit up his face as he rubbed his scalp. "I only answered their questions."

Draco glared at him. "Are you a eunuch?"

"No."

"Are you a virgin?"

"Yes."

Draco continued to glare at him petulantly. "You could have just said that."

Dyre raised his brow. "I could have," he agreed.

Draco sawed vehemently into his steak. "I don't know if you are as annoying as Sirius or as stubborn as Severus."

Sirius and Severus both glared at each other, irked to be mentioned in the same sentence.

"I would say you are just like your father," Lucius said, smirking

Dyre looked up. He glanced at James, who was staring at him with his mouth hanging open. He shut it when he turned, looking sheepish. Instead of becoming affronted, he tilted his head.

"Perhaps," he allowed.

Later that night, after he had said goodnight to Draco and fed some bark to the wyvern, he sat beneath one of the many windows of Malfoy Manor, watching the almost full moon walk the sky. He rested his head against the cold glass and closed his eyes. He pressed his fingertips to the frame and imagined that Yrsa was pressing back, the Maiden over her shoulder.

"I am sorry," he said into the night.

o.O.o

Dyre was allowing the wyvern some fresh air when Narcissa found him. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a strange green peal to the sky. It would snow later. The lady was wearing little more than a shawl and a warming charm, a modest nightgown barely protecting her from the chill. Her breath fogged. Yet, rather than hunching, she remained regal, only the red of her ears and cheeks disarming her. Arms folded and her hair in a gorgeous falling braid, she greet him by the white gardens.

"My lady," he greeted, bowing.

She smiled, the morning as beautiful on her pale flesh as dew. "Did you sleep at all, Dyre?"

"A while," he replied courteously.

Unconvinced, she merely hummed. "Sirius will wake the entire manor in a few moments," she told him. "He does so every Christmas."

He didn't respond. She gave a resigned smile. "Would you care to join us in the parlor?"

"As you wish, my lady," he said, bowing. Inside, his stomach dropped. He had no gifts for them.

The wyvern, seeing that he was leaving, made a dive and curled up against his shoulder, nestling his neck. An idea struck him.

"Excuse me," he said as they were walking. She turned her head to look at him. "Might I have some discarded glass?"

She crinkled her brow, something that Draco had inherited. "I'm sure the house elves could find some for you," she said, a question in her voice.

He inclined his head. "My thanks."

They brushed the snow off their feet at the entrance, the angry flush on Narcissa's cheeks attractive in a nonsensical sort of way. Dyre watched her from the corner of his eye, wondering if Draco's skin would be so sensitive. When they reached the parlor, almost everyone was already gathered. James yawned, hanging off his wife's shoulder, in pinstripe bottoms. His glasses threatened to fall off his nose. Lucius and Severus looked wide-awake and pristine even in night robes, sipping on tea and sitting in armchairs. Remus was the least clothed, fabric probably very irritable this far into the month. A various assortment of scars decorated him, light and thin. He had a nasty crop of bedhead, only a little better than James'.

Draco was leaning on the arm of the couch, about to fall asleep again. The boy was in silk pajamas, a light blue that matched his fair complexion. Narcissa guided him beside him. Draco opened his eyes long enough to move position, resting him head on Dyre's shoulder. Dyre gave him a startled look. The wyvern gave a small hiss, and Dyre sighed, touching the blond's hair lightly.

Sirius bounced in, Dumbledore behind him. The codger had on a long cap and was hugging a bear. He shuffled over to the couch in bunny slippers, taking the seat to Dyre's other side.

"Dyre?" Sirius said, much too brightly for the hour. "You're dressed."

Dyre lifted his brow in a manner so Snape-like that Sirius started to frown. "I was not aware that the festivities required sleepwear."

"Do you even have sleepwear?" Draco mumbled drowsily on his shoulder.

"No."

The boy raised himself up, trying for a glare and managing only to look sleepy. "You do not sleep in the woods naked."

"Alright," Dyre said magnanimously.

Draco groaned, rising off him completely. "You are so irritating."

The only reason Dyre didn't laugh was because they were in company. The wyvern hissed again and Dyre glared at him.

"The creature does not seem to be too fond of my son," Lucius said as a house elf popped in with breakfast.

"No, my lord," he said honestly, looking slightly miffed. "Forgive him. He does not understand the courtesy of your house."

Lucius chuckled. "He is a creature, Dyre. It would be irrational of me to think he could understand anything of my house."

Dyre gave him a quick, hard look that startled Lucius slightly. The expression changed swiftly though and Lucius wasn't sure he had seen it. He hummed and snapped something at the young dragon, which made him rear off his shoulder, opening his wings. Dyre glared back vehemently and the wyvern flew off his shoulder to Lily, who giggled when he rubbed against her neck. Dyre rested his forehead against his fingers.

"He's cute," James said, offering him his finger.

"If I may," Dumbledore said, that silly bear cradled in his lap while he smeared an inordinate amount of jam on his toast. "Why did he go to Lily?"

"Since I am her offspring, he is under the impression that he will not be thrown out if she likes him."

While everyone else went silent, Dumbledore laughed. "I must say, my boy. You are not a favorite among dragons."

Dyre snorted before he could stop himself. He glanced up at the headmaster.

"If I may ask, what was the fate of the Horntail?"

"She was sent to a preserve," Dumbledore told him. "As long as she attacks no more humans, she will remain there in peace."

"She can fly?"

Dumbledore gave him a genteel smile. "Yes, my boy. As much as suits her."

Dyre graced him a soft smile, and Dumbledore preened, adding another layer of jam with a delighted hum. The parlor was small. Dyre was sure that the manor had a more accommodating room, but as he watched Sirius sit in Remus' lap and Lily and James leaning against each other on floor, he realized that it was actually rather perfect.

Sirius was eager to get to presents. A small fir sat on the corner of the room, decorated haphazardly by who he supposed was Sirius. The house elves would have done a much more tasteful job. However, there were no presents under it. Instead, Lucius summoned for the house elves to deliver the gifts. Apparently, this was a tradition as well, since James and Sirius always managed to uncover their presents if placed in any other care.

Dyre was pleased when he wasn't immediately undulated in wrapping. The others had gone through a few of theirs before a house elf presented Dyre with a black lacquered case. He took it, setting it on his knees, rather cautious. The others had stopped to watch him.

"We didn't want to drown you in presents," Draco said. "So we thought we would get you something from all of us. Victor said it was okay."

Dyre looked at him then back at the case, even more hesitant to open it. Admonishing himself, he ran his hand around the length, feeling for a latch. It opened at his touch, making no sound. Comfortable even with this much care, he pulled open the lid. His eyes widened. He could only stare.

On plush grey cotton was a set of four daggers. Ranging in style, size, and metal, they gleamed at him like eager soldiers. They were unadorned, the pommels and hilts sleek. One of black crystal for ceremonies and rituals, formed so painstakingly that only hint of a chisel marked the translucent edge. One of steel, a dirk with a black handle and sheath. A swordbreaker. Even a hunting knife. There was even a modern muggle switchblade nestled at the bottom. And tucked into the top of the case was a black leather belt with a slot for each of the blades.

Dyre could only gape at it, not daring to touch.

"Victor said that it was tradition for a father to buy his son his first blade," James said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I… haven't really had the opportunity to act like your father, and I don't know much about blades, so I thought we could all chip in."

Cautiously, Dyre's fingers skimmed the crystal dagger, the translucent edge that extended much further than first apparent. Bastards like him, with no house allegiances, received second-hand swords. They never had the money for this. He hadn't even dreamed of touching this.

"I… I have no way of repaying this," he said in a quiet voice.

"We didn't do it be repaid," James said. "You are part of this family. You deserve it."

Dyre swallowed.

"This isn't to bind you here, either," Lily said, as if reading his mind. "We know you have to leave. And… even if we can't go with you, we want you to have this with you."

Dyre's hand slid down the back of the case. He closed his eyes. They could have no idea what this meant to him.

They crowded to show him the nuances of the pieces. Severus had added a poison to the inside of the sheathe for the dirk, which was goblin-made, and Lucius had added a rune to the ritual dagger that prevented it from spilling blood without his permission and another that kept it from breaking, since it was more fragile than the other blades. The switchblade had belonged to Sirius, simple and muggle and therefore undetectable by magic. Remus had included the hunting knife, though he admitted that since he didn't eat meat it was rather useless. Dumbledore had included the swordbreaker, a parrying blade that had been a last minute addition after watching him fight. They all had surrendered money to have them made. Even Draco.

Dyre was still obsessively caressing the lacquered lid, watching the blades whisper, when they returned to their own presents, granting him a merry Christmas. It was a while yet, the floor littered with wrapping, when a house elf popped in.

"Dobby is having glass for Master Durmstrang if Master Durmstrang is wanting it here."

"Yes, please," he said, moving the case gingerly.

The elf cleared the last of the cold breakfast, a small mountain of broken glass replacing the trays. With a determined expression, he wrapped his hands in a ward and shuffled through it. There was colored glass, most likely from stained windows. There was even some from creative vases, blown in artful swirls. Dyre separated it meticulously and rolled up his sleeves, exposing the light network of scars on his arms

"What are you doing?" Draco asked when he couldn't tolerate to watch him anymore.

"It won't measure up to your gift, but I'm afraid this is all I can give you."

The pile in the middle was completely clear. He raised his hand over it. His mouth moved without sound, the muscles in his arm tensing. The glass moved hesitantly at first, as if uncertain to what it should be doing. Then, they melted, wrapping into a glistening colorless orb. As they watched, Dyre raised it up off the table, letting it spin.

After a moment of utmost concentration, his hands moved. Touching only the air around it, he pulled it into a long coil, moving almost too fast for them to distinguish the corresponding movements. As it rolled, spikes and wings rose. Gradually, it grew into a wyvern, thrice the size of the one at Lily's neck. Dyre's fingers flicked, calling out points from the spires. The soft glass wavered as if in intolerable heat before settling into shape. Every point was sharp, the mouth like a triangle, the eyes angled into a graceful arch. The bat-like wings had careful tips, spreading wide and thin enough to be invisible. Only the torso and tail were round, snaking in sleek coils from the junctures of the wings.

Dyre held out his hand, allowing it to rest, and stared at it a long moment. He frowned slightly. Then, he leaned forward. He blew softly in the creature's face. They watched mesmerized as a small trail of blue coiled in the center of the glass, like ink in water. It settled in the middle then bloomed into a flame.

The wyvern shuddered and gave a stretch. Its wings shuddered. Dyre's hand fell away and he leaned back with a rare, satisfied smirk. The wyvern gave him a single assessing look, circled the ceiling, and crawled atop Draco's shoulder, careful of its fragile, sharp wings. The blond stared at it with his mouth agape. The creature gave a self-admiring arch of its long neck, daring Draco to touch it. The boy did so. The slick unhindered flesh was cool and warm in patches. It moved beneath his fingers like a pleased feline, a slight _tink_ echoing as it shifted.

"How did you…"

"You seemed to like the wyvern. Does this shape suit you?"

Draco nodded. The wyvern swooped beneath his chin to light on the side Draco was facing as if it couldn't bear not being the center of attention. Sirius gave a single, short bark that was quickly muffled.

"I've never seen someone manage animation without a wand," Dumbledore said, staring at it.

The creature regarded Dumbledore, circled Draco's head and landed in his hair to pretend to take a nap.

"It is an elemental," Dyre said, shifting the next pile in front of him. "It will stay alive as long as I do."

"So even if you are in Iceland…" Lily said.

"Yes," Dyre said, melting the oranges and reds of a stained panel much more quickly than his first try. "You will know whether or not I am alive. Even if my magic is stricken from me or I venture into Hel, these will remain as long as I possess my soul."

He called out the shape of a bird, a small canary of the most vivid hues of fire. It was much more rounded than Draco's creature, the feathers no less sharp though and its small feet a tad thicker. He breathed the dark blur of a heart beneath the glass. It shook itself, puffing out as if it could feel the chill of winter beneath its glass plumage. It tilted its head and chirped, clucking in a high-pitched bell. Scratching his palm, it fluttered to Dumbledore's shoulder. The old man looked shocked. It hopped closer to him. He smiled, offering his finger. The bird nettled the digit, pecking like it would at a worm. Then, it jumped on his finger and started singing.

"How utterly delightful," he said, taking closer to his chest. "Shall I name it?"

"Of course. It will serve no purpose but to keep you company though."

"There need be no other purpose in life," he said. "How does Leopold sound to you?" he asked the creature.

It pecked in his beard then gave a mighty trill, readjusting its wings. Dumbledore chuckled.

"Does this not tire you?" Lucius asked.

Dyre seemed stuck on what to do next, pondering the blue and purple pieces with a frown.

"I do not use magic often," he said dismissively. "Or in large quantities. I have been trained to work without a wand. I should have enough to finish them."

"Well, that neatly sidestepped my question," the blond mused.

He got a small smirk in return. "A bit," Dyre said honestly. "And I will not be able to perform any magic of substance for a few days."

He seemed to decide on a form and melted the glass. A little while later, a hummingbird flew to Narcissa, who blinked at it, then smiled at the beautiful coalition of colors.

"Well, aren't you a pretty thing. Cissy," she named.

"You named it after yourself?" Sirius teased.

She continued smiling at the bird resting on her finger. "It should have a name fitting its beauty," she said shamelessly.

Sirius snorted.

"You're making all of them fly," Remus noted.

"They'll break if they're stepped on. And they can answer your call quicker if they can fly." He glowered at the swirl of blue. "Master Black, would you change this to grey for me?"

"Sure thing," he said, taking out his wand.

He formed a peregrine falcon, a nimble quick thing smaller than its average size with a sharp face and wingspan. It went to Lucius, landing on the back of his chair instead of his shoulder. Lucius nodded his approval, noting how the bird held itself so upright, watching the other people in the room as if too proud to be truly associated with them. He chuckled.

From one of the vases, a deep mixture of purplish-reds and greenish-blue, Dyre made a Chinese dragon, the face kind with age. It flew to Lily, curling around her neck, where it preceded to rumble contentedly against her pulse. The wyvern let out a screech, darting back to Dyre, who ignored it.

He took the reds and crafted a brilliant cardinal, the plume at the top puffed just like James' ratty hair. It landed on the man's shoulder, who laughed and called him Kyle.

"You could make a bat for Severus," Sirius teased.

"Change this black for me," he said, ignoring him.

"I don't know if black will stay in the glass," Sirius mumbled but did as told.

It went smoky and Dyre directed him to stop. It was an inky mixture, the dye seeming to bleed. Dyre formed a swallow, sleek and long, the blue flame darker beneath the glass. It dived low and caught itself on Severus' knee then flew into the rafters.

Dyre said, "I thought you would prefer for it to remain out of sight. It will act rather shy."

"That is acceptable," Severus said, taking a sip of his tea.

"Are you ok, Dyre?" Draco asked, eying the small sheen of sweat that coated his forehead.

"You can save ours for later," Sirius said, and Remus nodded.

Dyre shook his head. He made two piles of blue and red, raising them both separately. He formed their shapes then put them together. The edges blurred a little, but the color remained mostly true, revealing a young robin. He breathed life into it, and it went to Remus, who welcomed it with a kind smile.

Dyre stared at the remaining miscellaneous pieces. He took up the remaining blues, casting dark navies along the back, wings, and tail and soft beryls for the chest and up into the arch of the eyes. He gave it life and let out a sigh as it flew away.

"What species is it?" Sirius asked.

The bird nibbled on strands of his hair, hopping around his finger to inspect the rest of the room curiously

"A jay. Also known as a Whiskey Jack. It is more native to North America than England." When Sirius continued to stare at it blankly, Dyre sighed. "Whiskey Jacks are considered trickster birds."

"Brilliant!" Sirius crowed.

"Thank you, Dyre," Lily said, petting her dragon. "This was very thoughtful."

"No more thoughtful than your gift, my lady. And I apologize for the forms being so hasty."

"There is nothing to apologize for," Narcissa said, fingers resting over the breast of her creature. The fragile beak rested over her knuckles. "This is perfect."

The others nodded.

"Why North American birds?" Severus queried, eying James' cardinal as if considering throwing a rock at it when it continued to bob its head at him stupidly.

James put him hand up between them and stuck out his tongue.

"The Maiden has a guide to them."

Draco shook his head. "She collects some of the strangest reading material."

"Yes," Dyre agreed. "Such things have been known to curry her favor. It is a small vice and most often harmless."

"Would you like me to find some to send back with you?" Lily asked.

He looked up at her so suddenly that his neck popped, making them wince. He gazed at Lily with an open expression that made his face so much younger.

"You would do that?"

Lily shifted, embarrassed, feeling awkward beneath that stare. "Well, she raised you. I have a lot to thank her for."

"That… would be very kind of you," he said carefully. "And most appreciated."

Lily blushed. "Will I ever get to meet her?" she asked.

Dyre's face fell slightly but the sadness did not seem directed at her. "No, my lady."

"Because we're not virgins?" Draco said grumpily.

Dyre shook his head. "Even if you were, it is not in your skuld to meet."

"How would-" Severus started to ask but cut himself off, waving the question away, too bothered by Dyre's strange nature to obey his curiosity.

"Do you miss her, Dyre?" Draco asked softly.

"The Maiden is everywhere in this world. She will watch over me. It would be foolish to miss her."

They left it alone, petting the creatures as proof of his life. Christmas that year would mean more in the years to follow, a peek into the life that could have been had Dyre's Fate been more kind, had the consequences of his short life not been so dire.


	16. What We Love Most

'_Man's wolf to man' and we devour_

_ourselves. The enemy could not_

_have made a greater breach in our _

_defenses._

~ _In Distrusts of Merits_ by Marianne Moore

The January weather was cold even for the Norsemen. Frost formed where the water lapped at the platform posts, and a northern wind traveled over the mountains, bringing with it a fresh chill. The students huddled in groups, feeding off warming charms, hot chocolate, and quilts emblazoned patriotically with their school's emblem. Hogwart's strange insignia was crude next to the Golden Songbirds and Red Hart Skull of Durmstrang and the heavily stylized golden and ice blue B of Beauxbatons.

Dyre stood in Draco's old swimming trunks and a long-sleeve tee that used to belong to James. Diggory and Delacour were in equal states of undress, jumping up and down while rubbing their arms for circulation. The filthy green of the lake was unmarred by the temperature, no different than the first time Dyre had emptied the galley bucket so many months ago. Dark and murky and unbreachable.

Gillyweed slicked his hand, making his palm even colder with moisture. It had been delivered to him that morning by Glock, the swallow that Dyre had given Professor Snape. He had planned to pull the oxygen from the water, an enchantment not so different than a bubble charm but much more taxing. It had taken a long internal battle before he had accepted the plant. Out of all the debt he owed, he supposed a bit more could hurt him little.

Dumbledore was speaking to them, but his gaze remained far off, crossing the length of the lake. The day even looked cold, flurries descending from the beaten sky. Dyre had easily deciphered the meremish in the egg, though British meremish was certainly a different dialect than Scandinavian meremish. What was most troubling was not the depth and chill of the lake but wondering what had been stolen from him. The most obvious choice had been the dagger set, but the dirk remained at his hip and the case in the possession of Morgan in the forest.

He startled slightly when something brushed his neck, but it was only Cetis, Draco's glass wyvern. Draco had taken to the creature much more heartily than Dyre had expected. It was always furled around the boy's neck, watching his interactions with a lazy but guarded eye. Dyre looked over his shoulder and saw Draco watching him. The young lord was standing beside his mother, a fleece scarf shielding his neck from the wind and his hands stuffed in his pockets. His eyes were bright though, wind-blown hair like whipped frosting, ears sharing the shade of a cherry. Dyre's fingers rose to pet the head of the wyvern, which hummed regally in response.

And realization of what lay in the watery depths hit him like an uppercut. It couldn't be possible. She was bound to the Tower, to never set foot outside those grounds. It was forbidden. But Dyre knew that the Maiden could speak only a word and every law and precedence that had founded their age could be overruled.

The wyvern flew back to its owner. Dyre knew of the riddle only a few horrible seconds before Dumbledore told Delacour and Diggory. It was enough only for him to stuff his mouth with the gillyweed.

The burn was immediate even before it hit his stomach, slithering much too slowly down his throat. Pressure ripped his neck. Cartilage grew and stretched awkwardly between his fingers and toes. A second pair of membranous eyelids bubbled beneath the first, stinging wickedly. He ignored it as well he did the cold and pulled the shirt over his head.

He knew the moment when the crowd was exposed to his back. There were gasps and shouts, the moment of the start of the second tournament stolen. Dyre jumped off the dock, a crack signaling the clock only a sparse moment before he hit the water.

An hour. An hour to retrieve Yrsa and an hour before the gillyweed dissolved in his stomach.

Odin, please. If you love him any, not Yrsa.

o.O.o

Draco was in a state of shock. His back. _Merlin_.

He might have expected whip marks, hex slashes, burn blasts, anything. Not the crest that burrowed crudely into muscle, like a long parasitic worm. The insignia of Durmstrang. And along the spine, Merlin, it was as if someone had tried to pull out his vertebrae. The skin along the bone was indented with the impression of fingers, dissecting the ugly songbirds and the skull of the deer, nose disappearing into the waistband of his swimming trunks.

He felt his eyes prickle, his hand over his mouth to fend nausea. His mother put a hand at the base of his neck, fingers achingly cool amid the fleece.

"You knew," he said. "Merlin, did… did Karkaroff do that?"

Her lip pinched, but that was the only sign of emotion that she gave. "I don't know, Draco. There are runes in the space along his spine. I could not read them, but they looked like compulsion spells."

Draco shut his eyes and pressed his hand closer to his mouth, sucking in his abdomen to control the gag reflex.

"Mother," he started but slipped off, unable to speak.

Narcissa's gaze ran up to the judging panel, where James and Lily had gotten into a heated argument with Karkaroff. Draco left his mother's side to talk to Victor, who was already speaking urgently with the Granger-girl that Dyre had invited to the Yule Ball. They were soon joined by another boy from Gryffindor, a lean child with a kind but clumsy face and baby brown curls. Pomela had joined the argument in the judging box, and Narcissa wondered if she too should content herself with watching Karkaroff flounder.

When she had first seen the mark, she had raged. The lines were too artistic to be anything other than a spell, and the malevolence that leaked through the furrows could only be spawned from Dark and ancient magicks. Despite the depth, which simply _had_ to interfere with his muscles, Dyre walked with no great strain, though she was sure at times that it moved beneath his clothes. The level of sophistication involved in such a thing was far beyond Igor Karkaroff. Far beyond even Dumbledore, she supposed.

Versed by her mother in nearly every Dark art imaginable, her fingers had hesitated even to hover. She was not sure what resided in the marks, was not sure if such a thing could be called evil, but the form it had taken outdated even Durmstrang. It scared her.

As she watched the surface of the lake, Cissy darted from the pole where she had been keeping guard and hovered by her shoulder. Narcissa held out her hand and gave a faint smile.

As she cooed to the creation, two meremen broke the surface of the lake, Delacour unconscious in their grip. Her skin was red and puckered with the grip of grindylows. Dumbledore abandoned the judging deck, Madam Maxime at his side. He conversed quickly in meremish as the giantess lifted the girl out of the water. Madam Pomfrey was at her side in only a second, swaddling her in blankets and mending the bruises along her arms and legs. Poppy woke her and shoved a Pepper-Up in her open mouth before she could protest. She choked, spewing half the potion across her lap, where it steamed. When she caught her breath, she started rattling frantically in French, motioning to the depths that hid her little sister. Narcissa watched the hubbub from a safe distance, unbothered the stream of crowding French. Dumbledore left the mere and assured her that the young girl would be returned at the hour's end completely unharmed, his assertions swiftly and sternly backed by the headmistress, though Fleur looked no less aggrieved.

Toward the end of the hour, Diggory surfaced, the Chinese girl in his arms and a boyish grin on his face as his classmates cheered. In a dramatic fashion, he surfaced just as the clock chimed, signaling the end of the hour.

Narcissa searched the waters.

A murky blob was drifting towards the surface, and she strained her eyes to see, holding out her wand. Draco and the Granger-girl rushed to her other side. The blob surfaced, revealing a young girl not much older than Fleur's abandoned sister. She was alone.

The teachers quickly flooded the lower deck, combing the water with their wands for signs of Dyre. The girl searched around her, ignoring the calls to swim to the platform. Narcissa watched as she drew in a great breath of air and despite all reason, dived back down into the freezing water. Before she could grab him, Draco wrapped his head in a bubble charm and dove. Her shout went unheard, but James was close behind him, throwing off his robes.

Lucius was beside her in an instant. Cissy darted across the surface of the lake, joined a moment later by her husband's falcon. Beatrice made a quick dive, swooping over a spot in the water, marked a second later by her little hummingbird. Narcissa warped a ball of light and launched it with undeniable accuracy across the lake, holding the spell even when the water tried to extinguish it. Lucius touched the top of her hand lightly, adding his silent support. She clenched her jaw and held the spell steady, waiting.

o.O.o

Dyre's main hindrance was not the crowd of grindylows the waited to ambush him from the kelp or the intense cold. It was the darkness. Without a wand, he had no way to illuminate the water, and the winter sun yielded almost no light so far into the water. He had removed his dirk and having slaughtered the few grindylow that attempted to attack him, used the blood to guide him to the largest concentration of magic in the lake.

So far, the kraken had made no appearance, but he suspected that it had gone deeper into the mountain caverns to rest for winter. It would explain why Dumbledore had wanted to host this event in January rather than when the weather was more agreeable.

Dim light greeted him from between the kelp. He gripped the handle of the dirk between his teeth and gave a mighty kick, weaving his arms to escape the kelp field. The weeds parted and he rear sharply. The mere were watching him from rocky hovels. Warriors of both genders, androgynous breasts shielded by long stretches of porous rock, shells, and bone, tightened their hold on serpentine spears.

Dyre stared back at them with amphibious eyes. They were not so different than the mere that inhabited the Crystal Lake, if a little less hostile. He could see mothers pushing their young back into the hovel, babes more fish than man and white membranous eggs. Their crude city squatted in large hills of uprooted limestone, surrounded by browns and dark greens. Talismans wavered on thin strings of kelp, making no sound against the current.

Dyre approached the nearest warrior. The male tightened the grip of his weapon, thick bulbous eyes observing him warily. Dyre sheathed his dagger, hovering. He inclined his head and slipped past the guard into the city, passing below the creature's waist so that his neck and back were exposed.

Eyes followed him. Only once did he stop again, before another guard who pointed towards the center of the city. Not trusting in his pronunciation of British meremish, he merely inclined his head gratefully and swam in the general direction that he had pointed.

There were guards posted in a circle around the captives. Diggory was already busily cutting the cords that held down his Yule Ball partner. Dyre watched the guards, noticing how none seem inclined to hinder him. They were here for the protection of the captives it seemed. Of course, Dumbledore wouldn't want innocent charges victimized by the creatures that the competitors were supposed to face.

Dyre spotted Yrsa instantly. Her adept tunic floated around her, limbs stiff. Her brown hair was nondescript in the dirty city, not as blaring as the blonde child next to her. Dyre swam to her. Softly, he touched her face, unimaginably disturbed by the lack of color in her face.

Diggory freed his captive. He gave Dyre a swift look and struck against the lake floor, catapulting to the far away surface with the girl in his arms. Dyre watched him go, feeling time running out.

He cut quickly through Yrsa's bonds and gathered her in his arms. He made a dash for the faint light of the surface, the burn of the magic of the gillyweed fading into his bloodstream. He was sure he was going to make it. He knew it would be after the appointed hour, but he was already crafting the oxygen from the water around his nose.

He was so close.

Something flashed by his side. The quick motion startled him, and the last burst of speed from his webbed feet and hands were wasted. He scanned the darkness. The light of the city below and the sky above were both too far away. He could see nothing but sloppy green. A screech echoed through the water.

It was a knucker.

He propelled himself upwards, but as he knew it would, a tentacle sharp with fins snared his ankle, breaking it. He forced the water to expel Yrsa to the surface and unsheathed his dagger. The creature was in close range now, and he could see the distorted features. The long body of an eel, lethal with pinioned fins, coiled in black scales, the length of the world for all Dyre knew. Distorted eyes, milky with the blindness of cold, unfathomed regions, perched above a mess of crooked teeth jutting in monstrous proportions and angles.

In the moment when the knucker attacked, Dyre slashed his dagger and lost track of the magic holding air around his nose. The water's buoyancy skewed his perceptions, and the knife slid off the creature's flank rather than its head. The teeth fastened on his side and ripped. He screamed, bubbles rising in place of his voice. Brown water swarmed suddenly with blood, the red of his and the inky blue of the creature.

With another inhuman wail, its tail bashed against him, throwing him through the water. Dizzy from the pain and the lack of oxygen, he barely managed to grab the creature's tail. The fin tines tore open his palm, but he channeled enough magic to burn through the scale. The knucker howled again and retreated.

A last puff of oxygen left his lungs, the light disappearing from above him. The dirk started to slip from his fingers, and the last thing he remembered was thinking that it was such a shame to lose his first blade.

o.O.o

Yrsa searched the water, easily filtering air and discarding the excess hydrogen in a stream of angry bubbles. Dimly, she tasted blood in the water. The trail was not hard to find. Dyre floated in a sea of transparent red and thin black, an empty hole of ripped flesh exposing his ribs. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shot towards the surface.

Yrsa crashed violently into air. A beacon of light was leading fellow divers to her, and though they cried out frantically, she could not understand them. The platform was crowded with people, the lower level swarmed with students.

Dyre wasn't breathing. With a curse, she pulled a crude wave behind them, rolling them towards shore. Her control faltered and the wave crashed. She curled around Dyre's body, trying to take most the fall as land hit. She ended atop him, sand and pebbles skinning sticking to her wet hair and clothes.

"Harald!" she shouted, leaning over his face.

A man pushed her aside. He opened the boy's mouth and breathed. Yrsa pushed him out of the way with a growl. Forcefully, she grabbed the water in his lungs, hand raised above his sternum. Concentrating hard enough to make her temple and jaw tender, she followed the path of his throat. It made it all the way to the back of mouth when he sputtered. He surged upward, spewing the water and coughing.

Wasting no time to relief, she stifled the flow of blood from his side and disinfected the wound, making his body seize in shock. She grafted the skin haphazardly, eager only to allow him enough strength to live. Dyre suffered the torment silently, the back of his head pushed into the rocky shore of the Great Lake, teeth clenched.

Finally, she released the spell and fell again his chest. "Harry, you idiot!" she screamed in Icelandic. "Don't you ever do that again!"

"Yrsa," he groaned.

She pulled up, her face shining with tears, gritty rocks stuck in a long streak over her cheek. She pulled his hand up to cradle her face, leaning into the gesture with abandon.

"I'm not dead," he whispered.

"Of course not," she said, pressing a kiss into the heel of his palm. "I won't allow it."

o.O.o

Yrsa had a classic beauty. With pale flesh like porcelain, she looked like a winter doll. Chestnut curls made a thick curtain around a cherubic face and down her back, tangled in misshapen braids and hand-blown ceramic beads. Her blue eyes were bright with magic, deeper and darker than the Malfoy-grey and Dumbledore-egg beryl. She stood only at Draco's chest, her white tunic clinging to curves she had yet to grow into.

James had carried Dyre to the infirmary, sitting him on the same bed he had occupied after the first tournament. Madam Pomfrey was not far behind them. She fussed over the break in his ankle and the huge portion that had been taken out of his side, though Yrsa had already safely taken him from death's threshold. There was nothing left for her to do but relieve the inflamed flesh, heal the bruises, and take the rest of the liquid from his lungs.

The girl stood like an awkward reminder of a time they were not privileged to. The austere grace in her movements were outdated and unapproachable, the emotion in her eyes cool as a misted mirror. She had not spoken a word of English and save only a few sharp exchanges with Dyre had spoken barely any Icelandic either. No one knew what to do with her.

Dyre suffered the prods of Poppy's wand, three healing poultices, and a Pepper-Up before the elder Healer granted him fit to leave. Yrsa was first to spread her hand across his chest and help steady him off the bed.

Dyre surprised them all by enveloping her in a sudden, tight hug. He whispered softly into her hair, something that even without translation they could easily understand. He pushed her away gently but firmly and looked her over for injury. She shook her head, added a wry twist of her eyes, and responded in the same tongue.

Her gaze suddenly sought them out, landing a few moments longer on James and Lily, who stiffened in response. The girl posed a question, the language sliding over her tongue like a bitter poultice. Dyre's face faltered, his gaze growing heavy as he responded, voice soft and gentle in comparison. Her eyes widened, and she sent a look of pure hatred to Lily and James. Dyre grabbed her arm and forcefully turned her from them. He spoke quickly in Icelandic, followed by the girl's frustrated arguments.

Frustrated, Severus cast a translation spell on the two of them.

"…not like that," Dyre said.

"I would have nursed you," the girl said, giving him a look full of emotion.

Dyre's green eye sparked like wet kindle, his brow drawing over his gaze. "You were not here."

She wrenched her arm away. "Is that my fault? I told you to take me with you!"

"It is forbidden," he said softly, allowing her to rail at him.

"Is it forbidden now?" she said, taking a step forward. "I am here, aren't I? You could have taken me then."

He shook his head. "The Maiden would not have allowed it, nor would Karkaroff. It is forbidden for you to be here."

"It is forbidden for you to be in the Tower," she spat. "That has never been a problem for you before."

"It is different, Yrsa," he said calmly, making motions to soothe her.

She drew away from him, blue fire spitting wildly in her eyes. "It is no different."

The two stared at each a long moment before Yrsa looked away, wiping her eyes. With no hesitation, Dyre drew her into his arms. She quieted almost instantly, her eyes drifting shut against his chest. When Dumbledore opened the door, they stayed so, moving only to lift their heads.

"Dyre," the old man sighed, the relief evident in his eyes. Leopold hopped along his shoulder, singing a short happy trill. "I do believe the fates have cursed you with a most interesting life."

Dyre gave a small nod, loosening his grip enough for Yrsa to turn in his arms. Dumbledore smiled at her.

"It is a pleasure to meet you again, young adept."

Yrsa gave him a cautious stare. "Banebreaker," she said in heavily accented English.

"Headmaster," Dyre said suddenly, but before he could continue, Dumbledore revealed a dagger from his sleeve.

"The mere believe that this belongs to you. Rather generous of them to return it, but you do make a mark on people, young Dyre," he said, offering the dirk.

He took the dagger, touching the blade reverently to his chest. "Thank you."

"Harald," Yrsa breathed, eying the dagger in his hand with awe.

Dyre sent her a rare, brilliant smile. "I was able to participate in Holmgang, love."

Beneath her inquisitive eyes, he presented the blade. Her fingers hovered over the edge, not touching. "It's beautiful," she said. She licked her lips. "And was it given beneath the full rights?"

Dyre gave a happy nod, appearing his age. As he tucked the dagger back into his belt, Yrsa turned her gaze back to James, this time a mixture of surprise and approval coating her luminescent eyes. When she looked back at Dyre, her face shone with proud.

"You are a warrior."

Dyre gave her a sweet look and moved his hand along the fringe of her hair. "You have grown, heart."

"Of course I have," she huffed. "My craft is much perfected."

"Pride, Yrsa," he chided.

She snorted. "Pride is a woman's only friend. Especially when her husband seeks to placate her with winsome words."

"There is no placating to be done with you," he teased. "I say only that you were a great deal shorter when I left Iceland," he said, petting her head. She batted his hand away, and he smiled. "Yrsa, I want you to meet…" He trailed off, gaze resting on the spot where Draco had been standing. He looked around and instead was startled to find the betrayed eyes of his family and the haughty eyes of Narcissa Malfoy.

He quieted and grabbed Yrsa's arm. She blinked then focused her gaze on their audience. Her expression rose in a sneer, and she moved to stand between them and Dyre before the boy pushed her behind him.

"Yes, Dyre," Narcissa said snidely. "Please introduce us to your wife."

Dyre's face closed off into a mask.

"Narcissa," Dumbledore started in warning.

"Don't act like you don't know what we're saying," Severus interrupted, voice slick across the infirmary. "Did you think your conversation would be private just because you decide to speak in a foreign tongue? There are translation spells, you stupid boy."

"Severus, that will be enough," Dumbledore said, raising his voice enough to cut the man off.

Hermione and Victor chose that unfortunate moment to enter the infirmary. Victor took one look at Dyre and limped across the room. He grabbed his arm and pulled him and Yrsa towards the door. No one moved to stop them, Dumbledore's furious gaze forbidding comment. Once the doors closed, he spoke.

"I had the opportunity to chose Draco for the tournament. I chose Yrsa instead because I thought Dyre would enjoy seeing her."

"Didn't you see that?" Severus hissed. "He is _married_."

"To an adept of the Tower?" Dumbledore said. "They are forbidden to marry."

"So it was a joke?" Lily ventured.

Dumbledore gave a sad shake of his head. "I know nothing of the relationship between Dyre and that girl. All I can say is that I'm ashamed of you." Protests rose and he cut them off. "You haven't acted like this since you were my students," he said quietly. "I can honestly say that I did not expect this."

"You saw the way they interacted," Sirius said, gesturing to the space they had taken.

"And did you not think once to ask Dyre what that girl meant to him before you accused him of infidelity?" Dumbledore snapped, losing his temper. "Knowing everything you do about his life, did you honestly think it necessary to attack him in such a cruel manner?"

"It was hardly cruel," Sirius mumbled, glancing at Narcissa.

Dumbledore's nostrils flared, and for a moment, they truly thought he would strike him. Instead, he turned and left the infirmary. In a rare display of rage, he slammed the door, making even Lucius jump. They floundered uncomfortably in the infirmary, the pressing eyes of Madam Pomfrey too much a judge.

Severus stormed out in an impressive display, Glock sweeping down from the rafters after him. They dispersed on his heels. The guilt settled in slowly, and only gradually did they begin to understand what they had done.

In one fell swoop, everything they had achieved in the last months evaporated. It took so little to upset the boy's pride, so little for him to think he'd been abandoned by the world.

What had they done?


	17. Monkshood

_As long as I kept moving, my grief streamed out behind me like a swimmer's long hair in water. I knew the weight was there but it didn't touch me. Only when I stopped did the slick, dark stuff of it come floating around my face, catching my arms and throat till I began to drown. So I did not stop._

_~ The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver_

Dyre ran his fingers along the case. The moon reflected off the polished surface. It must have cost about the same as the blades, coded to recognize his hand only. The wind blew through the trees, rattling the pines. It pulled at the grass, freezing his ears and swiping a layer of ice down his exposed neck, where the collar had bent.

"I wish you wouldn't wear that thing," Yrsa said.

The chill raised pimples on her flesh and whipped her wild hair. She tucked the strands out of her face, but the cold itself did not bother her. The light from the moon illuminated the almost translucent glow of her flesh, the tunic discarded, only a dagger belted at her hip. Dyre nudged his cloak closer, unable even with all his practice to man the temperature like her.

"I like my cloak."

She rolled her eyes. She stepped forward, fiddling with the collar. "It's shoddy work and looks ridiculous on you."

He smiled. "I like it," he repeated. "You worked so hard on it."

She sniffed. "And completely ruined a perfectly good stretch of cloth."

"Weaving is not the same as sewing, Yrsa," he told her fondly.

"I need none of your excuses," she scoffed, releasing the collar with a repulsed flick.

He granted her another smile. He turned back to the case.

"How long can you stay?"

"Two nights." She was quiet for a moment, watching him. "Do they really mean so much to you?"

He was silent. Loki and Levi returned from stalking the unicorns. Two triangular tongues rolled out of Loki's mouth, one dangling while the other licked its maw. Levi sat beside Yrsa, its head reaching her shoulder. Solemn rust-colored eyes, the pupil tilted and slit like a goat's, regarded him. Yrsa rested her hand at the back of its neck, brushing the white coat.

Loki bent its head, extending a long neck to regard Dyre's face. Dyre allowed his palm to smooth the creature's ear. It wagged its long tail, claws denting the earth. It made a small whine, the chords in its neck shuddering.

Loki never could stand the temperament of its sibling. They were only fifty years apart, a small time for daemons, but Loki remained a child.

"Harry," Yrsa called. "Why does what they think bother you so much? Have you changed so greatly in these months?"

Dyre gave a final stroke, regarding the creature's demonic eyes without blinking. He sighed and released the hound.

"It was a mistake," he said, and though tempted to leave it there, he had never kept anything hidden from her. He looked out at the night, saying softly, "I thought they had accepted me."

"I accept you," she said hastily, drawing herself closer to him.

She was very beautiful. On the cusp of womanhood, she seemed like fertile land, something mysterious and wicked beneath the moonlight. Dyre had thought himself madly in love with her when he was her age, had pledged himself in a bond witnessed by the Maiden, had married her in all but body. But he had never lusted after her.

Even if it wasn't forbidden, even if her youth did not mellow him, he didn't think he'd feel anything for her but the love of a brother. It was all-consuming and powerful. It made him want to hold her, to run and laugh and sing with her, to have her sit in his lap while he braided her hair and hold her hand, but it did not make him want to kiss her.

It did not fill him with the fire that Draco did.

He put his hand around her waist and rested his head in the wild mat of her druid hair.

"I know, heart. You will always be first. I pledged to love and cherish you, to protect and serve you, and I will never betray you."

"Harald," she whispered, tears soaking the front of his doublet.

He tried not to think about how he wished she'd said "Dyre" or how her hair should be softer and blonde.

o.O.o

Draco peered into the forest. Even in daylight, it seemed dark. He grimaced. He'd braved it at night when Dyre had disappeared in flight with the Horntail, and surely it had been a lot scarier then. But he didn't have the comfort of his father or Victor's bulk. The trees groaned, and the wild cry of bird sounded out like a woman's ghostly wail.

He swallowed. Then, with a deep breath, he braced himself and entered the forest. He skirted the fallen twigs and the over-large roots, listening for predators, the grip on his wand sweaty. The last time he was in here, he was kidnapped by a malevolent sprite and spirited to the Unseelie Court. James and Sirius had found him before he could consume the fruit, but he had never looked at a brownie or pixie the same way again.

The trees weren't as dense as he thought, but the overlap of the canopy cast everything in shadow. He knew he made too much noise, jumping at small rustles, treading through the leaves, and stepping on twigs. He searched the woods for Dyre, not daring to call out. His heart was beating much too bloody loud, drumming in his ears.

"You are ridiculous."

He screamed, frantically trying to aim his wand.

Yrsa stared down at him disdainfully from a branch from a rather unassailable-looking tree. It took him a moment of floundering to register himself. When he did, his eyes bugged.

"Why are you naked?"

"Why are you clothed?" she retorted.

Draco frowned, keeping his wand out.

"Where's Dyre?"

"Running with Loki and Levi. What are you doing here?"

He swallowed, averting his eyes. "I… I want to apologize to him."

"He will tell you to apologize to me," she said honestly.

"Yes," Draco said along his clumsy tongue. "We… we should not have assumed… We… I was just jealous."

Her eyes narrowed. "You desire my husband."

Draco clenched his fists and looked down. "I want to hear from him that he's your husband."

"You say I lie," she said with a dangerous lilt to her voice.

"I want to hear him say it," he repeated obstinately.

"What can you give him, lordling?" she glared. "Can you give him understanding? Can you heal his death? Can you protect him?"

"I… N-no," he admitted.

"You, you pretty creature, can you accept his scars?"

"Yes," he said hastily, glad to have a positive answer.

"Even the curse on his back?"

He swallowed again and looked back down. It hurt to even look at his back. He couldn't say in good faith that he would be able to accept such a thing, such a painful horror. And he had a feeling that the witch would know if he was lying.

"I want to try," he said, sounding weak even to his own ears. His meekness pissed him off. He drew himself straight, managing to met the witch with a glare. "The only person who can question my relationship with Dyre is Dyre. I don't care if you are his friend or his… wife. I won't leave until Dyre tells me to."

Yrsa jumped down. Draco gave a cry, moving to catch her. She landed spryly and Draco quickly counted the distance. It was a good forty feet. He stared at her in amazement then averted his eyes.

"Harry will always love me," she said, staring at him with dark, knowing eyes hot with resolve.

Draco felt his heart contract, his initial response to yell at her. But his initial responses, the ones prone to jealously and the one unwilling to trust Dyre well enough to ask him what he felt before drawing away, had screwed him over so far. So he counted to ten in his head.

"I really, really," he iterated rather needlessly, "don't want him to love you the way he… might… love me," he said awkwardly. He closed his eyes, relieved and scared when she did not interrupt him. "I know I can't keep him here. I mean, he… he might not want to stay anymore, if he ever did. He has to leave," he said, feeling the fight in him leave with the truth of his statement. "So I don't know why you're jealous. He has to return to you no matter what we do."

It was silent for a long while. He stared at the forest floor, repressing the urge to stumble over more silly declarations.

"Harry's skuld is already written," she said quietly. "And it is very unkind."

Draco looked up. She was looking away, biting her lips in a vulnerable way that belied her age in way that her unformed body did not.

"It is forbidden for me to have him like you can. If he sleeps with you, I will never see him again. He cannot have both us, Draco Malfoy," she said. "And you ask why I am jealous. What a cruel thing to say."

"I'm sorry," he bumbled. "I didn't mean- I didn't think. That's really screwed up," he said with an unhappy, hysterical chuckle.

"I hate you," Yrsa sobbed, holding her arms as if her stomach was threatening to cave. "I hate you so much."

"I'm sorry, Yrsa," he said again, not knowing what to do.

She sniffled, trying for some control. "If you love him, like you say you do…"

He nodded frantically. "Very much." He floundered for more words, more descriptive ways to articulate the overwhelming, aching sensation of loving Dyre Durmstrang, like he was going to explode at times and disappear at others.

"I hope he doesn't return it," she said honestly but not maliciously.

He swallowed "I hope he does."

She gave a brittle smile and wiped her face. Draco handed her a handkerchief. She accepted it, brushing the slight drizzle from her nose. She folded it and handed it back.

"How much longer are you staying?" Draco asked.

"One more night," she said. "I leave the coming morn."

"Come stay in the castle. We want to meet you. Really."

She nodded. "I would like to meet you as well. I would like to see the people that threaten to take him from me."

Draco got up off the ground, slightly surprised to realize that he had fallen to his knees. He offered her his hand, which she grasped, her fingers so small in his grip.

o.O.o

Lily gave Yrsa a big, watery hug. The girl looked surprised but patted her back. Dyre stood off to the side, not really sure how to deal with all this. Draco handled the introductions, completely at ease by her side. Dyre tried not to think about how much his smile, or the way he was so suddenly comfortable around the girl, warmed him.

It was lunch by the time Draco had taken them out of the forest, having found Yrsa's dress. Draco was skipping classes, and Dumbledore had somehow managed to find substitutes for Lily and Severus and had stolen from his desk despite Minerva's disapproval. They ate informally in the Potter's living room, Yrsa delighting in the array of foreign fruit, demanding that Dyre try the kiwi and mango as well.

Dyre kept out of the conversation and to himself for the lunch. Yrsa was talkative enough for the both of them, and he had to wonder what had led to such familiarity. She had dragged Draco down to the couch beside her and demanded the story of how they had met. As this was the first time the adults had heard the story, they gathered around the living room as well. Draco blushed and relented, adamantly not looking to the brooding boy against the wall. Yrsa smirked and flashed Dyre a dangerous grin that raised his hackles.

"Harald is always sweet to the all-sisters and all-mothers," she said, while Dyre tried to figure out where she was going with this. "Even when he did something foolish, they had a hard time punishing him. One time, All-Mother Sigyurd found him-"

Dyre vaulted the couch and slapped his hand over her mouth. The others blinked in astonishment, having never seen him react that strongly before, or so inappropriately. There was a blush on his face and a chagrined glare focused on the young witch whose eyes danced mischievously.

"Damn it, Yrsa," he cursed lowly in a resigned sort of way

She smiled against his hand.

"What happened?" Sirius asked excitedly.

"I was disillusioned in my youth," he said too quickly, keeping his hand tight on Yrsa's mouth.

"It is hardly respectable to hold your hand against a girl's mouth, is it not?" Lucius said with a slight smirk.

"Yes, Dyre," Severus joined. "It is proper to let the girl speak. I'm sure whatever mishaps your youth led you to are easily forgivable. We were all young once," he added with a grin that reminded Dyre of a jackal.

Dyre was forced to release her. She smiled sweetly and patted the seat between her and Draco. With a pained sigh, he sat on the couch. Thankfully, she didn't tell them about the minor episode he had when he was eleven, parading about the Tower in an all-sister's dress. All-Mother Sigyurd had found him before he'd done much more than enter the hall. The reprimand had been brief and half-hearted, and she had allowed him to slip away to show everyone else in the Tower, including the Maiden. He still grew red even remembering that, which Yrsa well knew.

Sirius would attempt to draw the story out of her for the entire night, which would make Dyre blush and Yrsa pretend to have forgotten. The manipulation worked and slowly Dyre engaged himself in conversation. He revealed that Yrsa had done the mangled patchwork of his cloak, which made her blush in turn and flick water in his face. They showed her their Christmas presents, which she praised with wonder, studying the blue flames in the center. She was still having a terrible time controlling glass, though she had a much more tolerable control on water than Dyre.

Draco reveled her with the tale of Dyre's defeat of Farkoff, acting it out with Sirius, who did an excellent impersonation of a flopping fish when the sword slashed across his throat. In return, Yrsa told them of when she and Dyre had stolen all the habits while the all-mothers were bathing and hidden them in the Maiden's room. The naked women had chased them about the courtyard, but the Maiden had saved them from a tanning.

They sat at the table for dinner, Dyre between Yrsa and Draco, a slight smile and a soft look in his jaded face as he tried to cut the lasagna into equal portions. They moved to an old drawing room where Dumbledore stored the piano, glasses of sherry in hand, while Severus played and Dyre danced with them all. Unlike the Yule Ball, his face was unencumbered. Yrsa was nimbly able to follow his carefree motions. They twirled neatly in and out, her laughter like music. As others joined in, she accepted Lucius' hand and Sirius eagerly went to meet Dyre. Yrsa moved on to Remus and Dyre took Draco.

His emerald eye, just a tad darker than his mother's, sparkled like the bottom of a pond.

o.O.o

Dyre and Yrsa declined rooms for the night. The adults retired, but the three youngest stayed the night before the fire in Lily's foyer. Yrsa sat on Dyre's lap, an introspective look in her gaze. Dyre too was staring into the fire, lost in the warm waves. Draco had eyes only for the northman.

He was beautiful with a smile on his face. Draco had thought the darkness, the sober chill that surrounded him like a fortress, was what made him beautiful. That mysterious, unapproachable quality like a tempting Dark spell. But it wasn't. Dyre's beauty shone even through that. Beneath the hardness was something soft, something kind and true, a wicked lovely like monkshood. Something gorgeous blue, hanging beneath the hood of a dewy habit, that only when consumed was poison.

o.O.o

Morning placed them at the shore. The hour was early enough that the light from the sun was still white. A mist rolled over the Great Lake. The skiff, manned by a single youth who looked eager to be on his way, rocked in the soft lapping of the waves. Yrsa stood with her back to the lake, the wind creating a wilder ruckus of her hair.

Dyre met her gaze, neither one of them knowing what to say. He handed her a bundle, two of the books that Lily had promised to deliver to the Maiden – one on African flora and the other on butterflies. She stared at them a long moment.

"You are not coming back."

He stared down at the top of her head. She fingered the wrinkled paper that protected the bundle. Her nail flicked a corner with a slight crinkle. She sucked in her breath and looked up.

"Kiss me," she demanded.

"Yrsa-"

"I will never receive another kiss in my life," she said, her eyes hard and teary. "Just one."

He moved forward toward her cheek, but Yrsa stopped him with her finger. He looked at her in confusion.

"Like you would kiss him," she said, gesturing to Draco with her chin.

Dyre froze. He looked back to Draco, whose expression was frozen as well. His gaze went quickly to Dyre's, and the Norse man was forced to turn away.

"Please, Harry," she said softly. "Just once."

And because he had never been able to deny her anything, he tried to banish the pain from his face and closed his eyes. He pictured Draco. He thought about how he smiled, how he laughed, the foggy mist of grey that rose in his eyes when he was aroused. He thought of the emotion that swarmed him, the impulse to pick up his fingers and deliver a kiss to the back of his knuckles, the warm pride when Draco trusted him to return from battle alive, when he ran his knuckles over the scar on his face.

He kissed her, stealing the slight exhalation from her lips, and he could pretend that it was Draco. He could remember the way it felt to have him rise up to meet him, to know that at least some of his feelings were returned. The skin, the warmth, the movement that identified a living being, with a will beautiful and independent, choosing to believe in him, choosing to be with him.

He didn't have to pretend that Yrsa's jaw was stronger or that her mouth was more experienced. He didn't have to imagine that her hair should be softer and shorter. It was not that far a stretch to release the burning ache that existed for Draco onto the girl. Even if it only existed for a moment, he could imagine that this was Draco and that this would be the way he wanted to kiss him if they could never see each other again.

He broke away. He took a step away from Yrsa, who had her eyes closed in an almost peaceful expression ruined by the tears running down her cheeks. She remained on her tiptoes. She lowered herself, pressing her fingers to her lips. Dyre looked away.

Yrsa remained silent for a long moment, and he knew that she was watching him, waiting, hoping for some sort of acknowledgement. She turned away and climbed into the boat. The oarsman pushed them into the water. They floated out, following the current until the boy started to row. Karkaroff's ship was in the middle of the lake. From there, she would Floo to the antechamber of the Tower to be purified before entering the sanctum.

She sat with her back to them. Dyre passed his hand over his eyes, fighting the urge to call out to her or follow her into the lake. Suddenly, Yrsa stood, unbalancing the skiff. The boy shouted, releasing the oars to grab onto the sides of the boat. Yrsa ignored him, jumped into the lake. Hiking up her dress, she ran across the surface of the water, tears streaming heavily down her face. Dyre stepped into the lake to catch her as she catapulted herself the last yard.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Harry," she sobbed, burying her face in his cloak.

Dyre couldn't speak. He held her tightly, pressing his cheek against her wild hair. His grip must have hurt. It must be leaving bruises, but he couldn't move. He couldn't do anything more than press his eyes shut and return the love that belonged to her and her alone.

"I'll watch over you," she said wetly. "I'll weave you a happy ending. I promise."

With a firm push, she tore herself away and ran back onto the lake. Dyre watched her go, not moving forward and not crying out, his arms left outstretched. She ignored the boat. The water rose around her, skirting at her ankles then weaving in thick coils around her shoulders. She did not look back this time. The swirling waters clashed in a peak and fell, revealing the empty space where all of the girl that remained was a single ripple.

Dyre remained in the water, the edge lapping at his shoes, and eventually his arms fell to his side.

"Dyre?" Draco called at last when he continued to stare out onto the water.

He turned away from them, shifting into a black hart. Two hellhounds joined him at the edge of the forest. They howled, turning their blood cold before disappearing with him into the wood.


	18. A Pain So Utter

_Pain – has an Element of Blank – _

_It cannot recollect_

_When it began – or if there were_

_A time when it was not – _

_It has not Future – but itself – _

_It's Infinite contain_

_It's Past – enlightened to perceive_

_New Periods – of Pain_

"There is a pain – so utter" by Emily Dickinson

The Slytherin dormitories were dark, though Draco preferred the term pitch. The enchanted window that unleashed rays of sunlight during the day did not show the moon. It made stumbling around without a wandlight difficult after hours. Theodore, Blaise, and Draco had learned to pick up after themselves if only to avoid getting tangled in their clothes and books when they were trying to be sneaky. Crabbe and Goyle were lost causes.

Draco listened to his roommates breathing. Silencing wards were already placed around Goyle's curtains, restraining his snores, but it was easy to pick out Crabbe mumbling incoherently like a puppy and Theo's slightly nasal breathing since the boy had recently caught a cold. Draco stared into the darkness, trying and failing to get to sleep, his thoughts, as always, consumed with Dyre.

No one had seen hide or hair of him all day, not that they expected to. Still, the idea of him alone in the forest, suffering through Yrsa's departure, upset him. Though, he supposed he wasn't alone, he tried to soothe. He had those horrible hounds and the centaurs, who put up with the lad much more heartily than they tolerated any other human. But the fact remained that he wasn't with _Draco_. And that truly seemed to be the sticking point.

He turned over, sighing irritably. He just wanted Dyre to confide in him, for him to be the one he came to when he was hurt. He had never thought that way with any of his other lovers. Part of his prior relationships involved coming to each other with troubles, but it had always existed more like a contract, and Draco had never been emotionally invested in his partners' woes, just average teenage angst.

He lied on his back again. This was stupid and… selfish. Dyre wasn't a normal boy. He probably didn't _need_ Draco worrying about him like this. He wasn't even in danger. For once. This was just Draco wanting to be the knight in shining armor. What a bloody Gryffindor.

He was lost in thoughts, but he still heard the slight sigh of the door opening. He did a quick check in his head. Yes, they were all here, and no one had sneaked out. Maybe it was Pansy wanting to slip into Blaise's bed. Draco pulled the pillow over his head, not wanting to deal with listening to the two of them going at it but too lazy to reach for his wand.

Silence continued without the whispered mumblings of the girl coaxing herself into a bed. Draco held his breath against the pillow, wondering perhaps if it wasn't her after all.

The footsteps were light, much lighter than the way Pansy usual trod in. Draco waited, feeling his heart climb into his throat. He heard his curtains move and someone sat at the edge of his bed. He sat up, eyes struggling through the darkness, unable even to make out a shape.

"Dyre?" he whispered, hands reaching out to feel him.

He was met with a shoulder, but the hands that came up to grab him a moment later were Dyre's. He relaxed, smiling. He started to speak but was cut off as Dyre kissed him. He grunted in surprise, and Dyre grabbed his wrists, moving them out of the way. He sighed, happy to allow Dyre all the power in the kiss. The northman pressed their tongues together, his boldness startling Draco a little. He remained at the edge of the bed, and Draco thought distractedly that he probably didn't want to get his shoes on the covers.

The kiss continued for a moment, urgent and thick. Draco moved to wrap his arms around Dyre's neck, but the gentle hold went hard and forced his hands to his side. It was this more than the way that Dyre suddenly bore him down onto the sheets that told Draco something was wrong.

"Dyre, wha-" he tried to say but Dyre snatched his mouth again.

He forced his head backward, thrusting his tongue, and Draco lost track of what he wanted to say for a second. He struggled against the hold half-heartedly, still captured in his arousal. Dyre knelt over the bed, crawling forward on his knee to push his wrists into the pillows and kiss him more deeply.

"Dyre," Draco said, managing to disentangle their mouths, still trying to keep quiet less he wake up his roommates. "Wai-" he cut off for a moment thrashing with a gasp as Dyre sucked on his neck. "W-wait, would you? Dyre."

When he was ignored again, his temper flared. He pushed against the hold, throwing out his shoulder. Dyre backed off, the hands leaving him.

"Dyre, what's wrong? This isn't like you," he said quickly, half afraid the boy would pounce on him again and he'd lose all manner of thought.

It was silent for a moment, and Draco took the time to control his breathing and will his erection away. He was relieved when Dyre didn't leave. Honestly, his silence was beginning to freak him out, and he was starting to wonder if this was Dyre at all, which terrified him a lot more than it should.

"I… I apologize."

Draco expelled his breath. "It's alright. You just… startled me, and you usually aren't so… rough," he said, unable to think of a better word.

"Did I hurt you?"

Draco grunted in frustration. "No, of course not."

Dyre moved, sitting at the edge of the bed a little further away from him. Draco scooted forward, ignoring the slight squeak of the mattress. His hand fumbled for Dyre's shoulder and found his arm.

"Dyre, I'm a male teenager. I'm going to be horny as fuck. Don't treat me like some sensitive girl. Really, it just wasn't like you." He paused for a second, debating with himself before just deciding to go all out. "You're upset, and as much as I'd love for you have your dastardly way with me, I don't want our first time to be when I can't see you, and I have to keep my voice down."

That drew a smile from Dyre, though he couldn't see it. "I'm sorry," he apologized again, though his voice was calmer. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Well," Draco said, getting annoyed with being unable to read his face (though there really wasn't that much to read; Draco just liked looking at him). "Can we go some place to talk about it? Or did you just come here to shag me?" he said, only slightly reproachful.

Dyre's silence was undecipherable, and Draco feared he might have put too much censure in that last statement.

"We can talk," he said at length.

Draco took his hand and started to disentangle his legs from the sheets. He didn't bother with a robe or shoes, following Dyre in the darkness to the door. (And how did the man _do_ that? Everything was bloody invisible!)

The common room was silent and empty, and though Draco would have much preferred to settle in Dyre's room, he sat them both on the suede couch before the fire, ignoring the slight chill in his pajamas. There was a seat of space between them that Draco didn't like but respected anyway. He pulled up his knee, resting his cheek on it so he could regard Dyre.

"So, are you ok?"

Dyre's expression was solemn. Though nothing of his clothing or disposition had changed much, there was a slight wildness in his unhindered eye that made Draco concerned.

"I am fine," he said succinctly, and it was the first time that Draco could tell that he was lying.

He dared to move a little closer and rested his temple on his shoulder. Dyre did not move nor did he acknowledge him.

"I'm sorry, Dyre," he said gently. "For Yrsa. I actually really liked her," he confided. "Though I don't know much about the whole wife-husband thing."

Dyre shook his head minutely but did not speak.

"I wish I knew something to tell you," he continued. "But I'm really happy you came to me. You're… you're private. You don't have a lot people you can trust and losing one… especially one that's known you so long… I can't even imagine.

"I'm not trying to turn this on me," he said a tad tensely. "But when you kissed her, and I knew you were thinking of me, the way you did it was just so… so gentle and kind, and it made me think about losing you the way you were losing her… and I'm sorry, Dyre, but it was just so _awful_. And I'm so sorry that things have to be this way with you two. That you had to feel that… No one should have to feel that. I'm just so happy that you're here."

He pressed his hands to his mouth. When he couldn't stand it anymore and dared to look up, the sight he saw surprised him. Dyre was crying. Not like Draco, who made a great mess of things like a fussy child, but just crying, a single trail of wetness falling over his right cheek. Draco crawled into his lap.

"I'm so sorry, Dyre."

And they shared the sorrow, Dyre allowing himself to grieve.

o.O.o

The days that followed were nice. They could be better, but Draco considered any time that Dyre did not spend in the infirmary, or in a life-or-death circumstance, very successful. Victor and Hermione (and wasn't that relationship rather startling) often joined them in conversation during the meals and in the library. Even Neville Longbottom stopped by every once in a while to talk to Dyre. The third task was in a month, and Draco was torn between wanting the Tournament to end and dreading when the northmen would have to return to Durmstrang. After Yrsa's farewell, Dyre's position at the moment was ambiguous, though of course Draco could hope.

Everyone was doing a lot of hoping these days. The small feeling that something was wrong, which had fled in the excitement over finding the Potters' son, had returned. Though Sirius was no longer working at the Ministry and Remus had taken a desk-job communicated by owl, they both still received accounts of the strange frenzy of Dark activity reported to the Aurors office. Two students from Slytherin suddenly left and another two had to return home on quick notice to attend funerals of family members whose magic had been caught in some peculiar vortex that ate out their core.

Over all, life at Hogwarts did not change, but the newspapers were broadcasting a strange medley of disturbing events, including an illness that broke out among the seers. Dumbledore was often gone from dinner. What assistance he could offer though remained to be seen.

The days were dark.

o.O.o

Dyre and Victor had taken to escorting Draco and Hermione, whom Victor was still not officially courting, to Herbology. It was the only period that the sixth year Slytherins and Gryffindors had together, and though Hermione was not really a friend of Draco's, the two were amiable to walking together with the northmen. They quickly found conversation in the other, seeing as how their escorts were both rather taciturn.

The atmosphere was friendly and warm, Dyre noted. The way Victor watched Hermione's mouth whenever she spoke, even if she wasn't talking to him. The way Hermione and Draco lost themselves in an argument. How the girl pulled books with hardly a thought from her bottomless bag when she wanted to prove a point. The way Draco puffed up and ended a discussion he had lost with "Well, my father…" They always spent so long walking, taking as much time as possible so that Hermione and Draco were almost always late.

Dyre had known it was going to happen. With Dumbledore so often absent, he knew that some things were going to surface no matter how much he tried to push them down.

"Boy!" Karkaroff shouted.

He had come through an arch, and Dyre had been so focused on the way Draco's hair was brushing his neck that he didn't know whether this was some planned interaction or an accident. Victor placed a hand in front of Hermione, who was watching him with proud distaste, holding her books against her chest in a way that Dyre knew was her battle stance rather than a defensive gesture.

Karkaroff's face was etched in the sharp lines of his origin, his beard making his face darker than it should have been. In the formal attire of the Durmstrang headmaster, he was tall, imposing, and merciless. But Dyre noticed the stains at the edge of his tunic, the frayed hem of his trousers, his lackluster boots, the stress lines that folded his eyes.

He drew himself up, having no time to summon his obedience, not when his first reaction was so unforgivably strong. Then, because he knew showing his pride was a mistake, he faltered, lost for what to do. Karkaroff bore down on him with a wrath reminiscent of a harpy, eyes blazing with the knowledge of his power. Power Dyre did not have.

Then, suddenly, Draco's hand was at his back, forcing him to abandon the small move he had made to step back. Having time for nothing else, he focused on what it meant for Karkaroff to be marching up to him and how he alone had the power to take that hand away from him. It was enough to steel him, for his anger to overcome the reason why he should be very afraid.

Karkaroff halted a ways in front of him, a snarl in his unsightly narrow eyes. His gaze swept to Hermione and Draco, ignoring Victor all together.

"Made friends?" His voice curled around the last word, and Dyre nearly flinched from the disgust in his tone. He turned his stare back to Dyre, hot with vice. "You think you can be real?" he said quietly.

Dyre knew that no one would understand what that meant except for him. This time, he did flinch.

"I believe both my father and Dumbledore have instructed you not to approach him," Draco said, stepping forward.

Karkaroff's eyes flicked to him, and Dyre suppressed the urge to tell him to be quiet or yank him back.

"Your father's not here right now, boyo," he said. "And Dumbledore has no right to detain what is mine."

"Dyre is an individual," Hermione said, her knuckles white over her books. "You can't treat him like an object!"

Victor pushed her back a little, watching Karkaroff warily. Hermione shot him a glare.

Karkaroff looked startled for a moment before he looked like he was struggling with a smirk. Dyre contemplated running. He always thought about it whenever he did something that made Karkaroff think he had to remind him of the collar around his neck. A shiver ran up his spine and he swallowed. But, as always, he clenched his fists and prepared to bear it, preferring shame to cowardice.

"Really?" Karkaroff said. He gave Dyre a leer. "Boy. Come."

Dyre could disobey some commands, but he felt Karkaroff's temper brushing over him, leaving fear in his skin and knew this was not a battle he could win. When he was younger, he protested. He rebelled and spat in his face like a she-cat in heat, and he'd suffered for it. That first spark of pain, so wretchedly human, gave way to habit. So he knew that some of his emotions were human, had been beaten into him when he had been very young and that he should know how to escape them now that he was older.

He hated him. He hated that Karkaroff could still make him feel like a small boy. He could see it in his face, the desire to case him pain, and maybe because he was the first, the first to strike at him with intent, Dyre had never been able to overcome it. Maybe it was also the curse, the curse that made his moods so vital to Dyre's survival rather than human instinct.

Every muscle in his body tensed, Dyre took a step forward. He could feel the doors that he had opened here, here in safety with Draco and his parents, closing behind him. He refused to turn from Karkaroff's gaze, refused to allow him complete dominance. He'd take his beating, but he wouldn't die, and he wanted Karkaroff to know that, to see it before he felt the smugness of victory.

"Dyre!" Draco snarled, snagging his sleeve. Dyre was so startled he stopped breathing. "You don't have to anymore," he said with the fierceness of the protected. "You don't have to go to him."

For a moment, Dyre felt lost, like he did when he was trying to figure out what he wanted from his parents and what they wanted from him. He noticed the flicker of Cetis disappearing around the corner, calling for help, and he stared at this beautiful boy, trying so hard to keep him when he knew it was impossible.

Because he hesitated, he felt the bond between him and Karkaroff. He'd felt its absence only because it was Igor who threw him from his sight. But under the new order, he felt it slither along his spine, planting compulsions in his mind. Making him _want_ to return to Karkaroff.

He hissed. The curse wasn't sentient, but sometimes he felt like he could communicate it. It fell docile again, but Dyre could still feel it, coiling in anticipation in some dreamed space inside his back and shoulders. It _could_ turn him mindless. Dyre was careful never to let it.

He touched Draco's hand and bade him to release his sleeve. "Aye, I do."

Draco looked devastated, and he couldn't help letting his fingers linger around his temples. Karkaroff was getting impatient though and he turned away. He felt somewhat stronger walking the distance, focused on the hate and rage he felt filling the gaze between them. Karkaroff looked less pleased with the victory, but a conquest was a conquest.

He wrapped his hand around the back of Dyre's neck. "See," he said, pinching so that he was forced to face them like a claimed prize. Dyre curled his lip, not minding that it made him resemble a dog. He kept Karkaroff in his vision, but he saw Draco reassemble himself, concentrating on the headmaster rather than Dyre.

_Good_, Dyre thought with relief.

Karkaroff was an idiot. He should have gathered his spoils and retreated, but he had always been weak to complacency. He stood there, gloating, and Dyre's curled lip fell into a cruel smile. He continued speaking, sprouting inanities, and Draco, Hermione, and Victor let him, feeding him with helpless fury that Igor soaked up like fresh blood.

He didn't think they'd find Dumbledore. That would have been too much of a miracle, and the man had been absent for too many odd hours to appear like a white knight. Dyre caught movement from the corner of his eye, and though he saw nothing, he knew that he was surrounded by people who cared to protect him. The feeling was quick relief, one that made him want to shiver. His shoulders fell and he almost wanted to cry. They would have no idea what they'd saved him from.

"You're a fool," he chuckled recklessly, cutting Igor off mid-word.

Regardless of what Karkaroff was, he had enough battle instincts to realize what had happened. He pushed Dyre in front of him rather than ogle like a green lad. Dyre went vapidly, lacking the height or berth to be a proper shield. He saw Severus distend from the shadows. Certainly terrifying for an enemy but it made Dyre add a dark glint to his eyes that felt like vengeance, bitter but satisfying.

The professor had his wand trained, and Black and Lily joined him at his sides, along with James and Lupin. Draco and Victor were at his back, and yes, even Hermione Granger, had her wand up.

Dyre made a jackal's smile, watching and feeling Karkaroff tense behind him.

"He's mine," the man snarled, taking out his wand. He began backing away.

"Release him," Sirius Black demanded in an auror's voice.

Karkaroff moved his wand to Dyre's neck, poking into the cavity beneath his jaw. He rolled his eyes, tilting his head so the pain was minimal. He wondered if he could slither out of the grip if he was fast enough, but he did not chance it, not with Karkaroff.

"You have no right to take what's mine."

"I ask for sanctuary," Dyre said in a clear voice, preempting the battle. His eyes found and held onto Severus first, who, as a professor, had authority to take him before Dumbledore for his request to be heard. The man nodded, backed by Lily.

"You heard him," Sirius smiled, jerking his wand as if to say "get on with it."

Karkaroff was surrounded and cornered. He'd backed into a wall to protect his back. Dyre had stripped the law from him. As a private institution, Hogwarts could provide asylum from any government just like a temple, and Dyre had a right to claim it. He knew however that the curse between them wouldn't care one whit about legalities, but he figured he could bear it for however long it was needed. It had never truly impeded him before when he managed to escape to the Tower.

He hissed when Karkaroff's hand came up around his neck, pressing into his trachea. He felt Igor's beard scratch his cheek as he was forced to raise to his toes or choke.

"Part or I'll hurt him."

"I will kill you," James Potter promised, wrath in his eyes.

"And I will tear you apart," Lupin added, no wand drawn. Not that he needed one with the flash of gold in his gaze.

Karkaroff laughed. Dyre's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to warn them. He felt it through his flesh, the curse traveling through his arms and down into the pit of his stomach in a stronghold. The words caught against the hand on his throat, and he merely gargled incoherently, kicking against the man's shins.

"Stop breathing, boy."

It was immediate. He gaped like an idiot as his throat tightened and closed. He could feel his lungs pull against the blockage, sucking. He heard the sounds he made, half wheezes incomplete. Even though he knew it was useless, his hand went to his throat to try to remove the binds. He scraped against his skin, digging for invisible rope.

Panic surrendered to pain. He began reaching for comfort, anything to hang onto though he didn't know how that would help either. He continued to gape compulsively, the wheezes turning to terrible screeches.

When he was ten, four lords forced his head into a barrel of mead. They pulled him out and shoved him back and continued until he stopped kicking. They left but one stayed. One lifted him up and gently put him inside the barrel, held him down with one hand when his feet touched the bottom and he tried to push up. He drowned and woke on the floor. The lord did it four more times, gentle as a lover, before a professor found him. Dyre's fingers and toes had turned blue and half his lungs were still swimming in ale. He should have died. The professor reprimanded the boy and took Dyre to the Tower. The Maiden healed him and suffered his bouts of terror around anything liquid, until Karkaroff began to call him again.

He learned later that She had sunk Her hand into his mind and pulled out the disease that the trauma had caused. He still couldn't drink mead, but She'd taken his terror into Herself so he wouldn't have to suffer, so he could survive.

She wasn't here now. By the fifth time he'd passed out and woke gasping, he could feel the madness. They'd tried spells on him. He'd felt the curse consume them, eaten by the scars on his back. Now, he couldn't feel anything. The pain was madness. Deprived bred depravity. He felt it eating the corner of his mind as he began to lose rational thought. It replaced eternity. Death wasn't even a presence. He could breathe when he slept – he knew it logically because otherwise he simply wouldn't have woken. But it brought no blessed _relief_.

He screamed soundlessly, feared the weariness in his limbs because of a disjointed belief that he could fight off his own need for air. He would not die, but he was going to destroy himself if it didn't stop. _It won't stop,_ something horrible whispered in the depth of his mind.

He'd stopped looking up and around him, disgusted by the helplessness in their eyes, stopped listening to anything save his own starved screeches. Someone was holding his hand though and that alone reminded him that this was a spell and not the way he was born.

Finally, he fainted and the darkness stayed still.

o.O.o

MASSIVE BREAKOUT AT AZKABAN!

_Written by Madelee Sawyer_

_On the 2__nd__ of March at approximately seven in the morning, Matthew Donnelly and Maxamillian Kent, respected guards of The Prison of Azkaban, took a rowboat out from the harbor at Oakley. They were sent to investigate the strange silence that had descended over the prison. This silence, in the most famed and guarded prison, is most unusual._

_When these two guards approached the front entrance of the prison, they immediately noticed that the dementors, those creatures who guard the prisoners (see page 4 for more information), had not come out when they docked. It was later discovered that the 400 dementors (precise accounts vary) left their posts and are now considered missing. Never before have dementors left the prison without a Ministry summons, and when summoned, our prestigious Ministry is always careful to monitor their numbers and whereabouts. _

_After searching the prison, aurors discovered the remains of several inmates (see page 4). Only the supporters of You-Know-Who, who was vanquished by our Ministry fifteen years ago, remain missing. These supporters, known as Death Eaters, are highly dangerous, convicted of crimes (see also page 4) that led to their immediate incarceration and life sentences. Aurors urge witches and wizards to remain cautious while they search for the missing prisoners and please be vigil. Contact the auror office in the Ministry by Floo or owl if you have any information regarding these individuals. (see page 4)_

Bellatrix Lestrange_ - convicted for the torture and permanent incapacitation of Aurors Alice and Frank Longbottom, the torture and murder of muggles, and the use of Unforgiveables, _

Rudolphus Lestrange_ - convicted for the torture and permanent incapacitation of Aurors Alice and Frank Longbottom, the torture and murder of muggles, and the use of Unforgiveables, _

Rabastian Lestrange_ - convicted for the torture and permanent incapacitation of Aurors Alice and Frank Longbottom, the torture and murder of muggles, and the use of Unforgiveables, _

Antonin Dolohov_ - convicted for the murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, the torture and murder of muggles, and the use of Unforgiveables, _

Fin Nightlee_ - convicted for the torture and murders of Auror Juniper Redhart, Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Nneka and Justin Nightlee, the torture and murder of muggles, and the use of Unforgivables, _

Ernest Mulciber_ - convicted for the murder and torture of muggles and the use of Unforgivables, _

Augustus Rookwood_ - convicted spy and user of the Imperius Curse, _

Johnston Powers_ - convicted for the rape and murder of numerous muggles and the use of the Unforgiveables, _

Weston Nott_ - convicted for the murder and torture of muggles and the use of Unforgivables_,

Leslie Travers_ - convicted for the murders of Marlene McKinnon and her family, the torture and murder of muggles, and the use of Unforgivables, _

Fenrir Greyback_ - werewolf, convicted for the intentional infection of numerous muggle and wizard children, _

Redan Redwyrm_ - known necromancer._

_These witches and wizard are extremely dangerous and should not be approached under any circumstances. _

Sorry to be so late with this update. Usually, I don't give excuses but I felt you deserve a reason for the long delay. I had a massive block on finishing the story, one that is still not completely cleared up. I also had to rewrite a portion of this chapter. I'm working on minor changes to some previous chapters, nothing that changes the plot. I wanted to include something though and had to change Dyre's duel with that prick Farkoff. I am a _massive_ editor, and I feel bad bothering my beta over the summer. (This chapter is un-betaed by the by.) Again my apologies to the readers who have been with me since the start. Hopefully, you haven't given up on the story. I assure you, I certainly haven't._  
_


	19. A New Servitude

_I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space; 'Then,' I cried, half-desperate, 'grant me at least a new servitude!'_

~ _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Bronte

He wasn't supposed to be here. The ley lines stretched like a cross between open railways and caves. He had never been able to describe the feeling of being simultaneously inside and on top of a trail. He felt the openness of flat fields and sky that could continue forever into darker and darker regions, but at the same time, he felt close, pushed through channels almost too tight to carry him.

Even if all the world was spread before him, he had to keep to the path. He supposed fish felt the same way in streams, the entity of land as foreign to them as the space outside the lines was to Dyre.

It had been so long since he'd traveled the lines. They were as beautiful as he imagined, warm as a dragon's throat, coated in shining northern lights. He'd missed those since he'd come abroad, missed the ice, which formed in Iceland much differently than England, though that too he didn't know how to describe. He sighed, pushed and pulled in opposite directions, cocooned and safe in a way he hadn't felt since he'd last seen the Maiden.

But he wasn't supposed to be here. Creatures passed in fans of unimaginable color and shadow. They squawked and clicked and hissed and roared, telling him to leave. He understood the words but not the meaning, as if the words were being repeated in a memory. There was a vague sense of urgency, but before he had time to unwind it and pulled the extended parts of his ravaged mind back into himself, the lines shivered.

Something came to him, something not traveling the lines but going around them. The entity was foreign to Dyre. Even demons, even gods danced in the ley, sending beautiful, terrible vibrations through the channel. But this was different. Inside the warmth, Dyre felt a pit of cold. Creatures swam passed him in a flurry, leaving him suddenly, inexplicably alone. Dyre felt at the cold and finally identified it as fear.

_You come at last, Harry Potter._

Dyre shivered. _Not here_, he thought. _Not in this sacred place_. Since the beginning of time, the ley lay untouched by violence. This could not happen _here_.

The presence moved and Harry recoiled in disgust. This magic was unnatural.

The creature chuckled. _Bad form, Harry. I know you, but you don't know me? You should know me everywhere._

It swept forward. Harry tried to scream, but the vibrations failed. He could see it, but its shape was as hard to discern through the magic of the lines. It was as if he were staring through several layers of curved and concaved glasses. Color distorted, he could get no proportion of race or even species, though it felt somewhat male. Cold nails like broken bone touched the side of his face.

Harry shivered again, overcome with the feeling of wrongness.

_I am in your home, Harry. I am in your friends. I am in every moment that you breathe._

He realized suddenly that he could not face this. He could see nothing but truth in the hideousness of its unnatural, distorted eyes.

The finger traced the tip of his scar. His breath hitched, the nail so strangely cold it burned. The sharpness pierced the line where the scar melded into unmarred flesh. It rode the crevice upward, widening the cut. Harry could not close his eyes, could not even turn his head. He felt the finger trail to his pupil, resting just short of touching. He kept absolutely still.

_So beautiful, my poor boy. So ugly. What use are you to me disfigured? _

A thumb, as cold as the nail, rested on his chin, keeping balance over his sensitive, blind god-eye.

_But I suppose it's mine as well. And what fortunes that eye will bring, what horror. _

Suddenly, two hands cupped his face. The creature leered close, and he could not back away, only stare with terrified fascination.

_Will you be mine, Harry Potter? Onto death do us part?_ It sighed. The breath carried the presence of stagnant, briny water. _One to control and one to obey. Let us make a necropolis of this world, oh prophetic hero. _

It laughed, drawing one of its hands back to bite on the nail.

_But I forget, my beautiful martyr, you already have._

The creature pressed close, coiling intimately around him. Dyre fled backwards and was caught by the line.

_I am the only one to control you, Harry_, it said as he was pulled painfully backwards. _I am the only one you can love, the only one who can hold your marvelous hate._

The last thing he saw was that face, leering at him, biting the end of its nail with a nasty smile wider than its distended face.

o.O.o

Dyre flew up with a scream. He kicked at the entanglements around his legs, falling to the ground. Someone grabbed him, and he lashed out, toppling the assailant backwards. He sat with his back pressed against a nightstand, breathing unevenly. Sweat had popped out on his back, and his limbs trembled. Trying to force the cold grip of fear out of him, he held his head. His eye throbbed cruelly.

He could still feel the creature pressing against him in the intimate space of the ley lines. It felt like it was everywhere. Something touched his shoulder. Though some misbegotten sense, he called his dagger. He slashed wildly, curled and defensive. A blast of magic hit him and the dagger flew from his grip. A hand grabbed his wrist, a voice yelling frantically. He shut his eyes and fought, wild and panicked, teeth snapping.

"Dyre! It's me! It's ok! You're safe!"

He stilled, turning his face to that voice. Draco stared back at him. Dyre looked at him. Something of Draco was there. He could see the skeleton of his face, but the details were diluted. He watched the face leer, the eyes turn red. Dyre gaped at it in shock.

"It's me," it said around that cloying smile. "You're safe."

He recoiled. There were whispers, sick sweet sounds that brushed aside his hair to tickle the shell of his ear.

He shook his head, elbows banging against the nightstand. Bile rose to his tongue. He could not remember being so scared before.

"Leave me alone," he whimpered. "Just leave me alone."

"No," the figure said. "I'm not going to leave you alone."

He shuddered. That sounded like something Draco would say. But, he couldn't believe that. Because the creature was everywhere, and he didn't know how to make it go away.

He started to hum a lullaby the Maiden had taught him to protect him. Something within him vibrated with laughter. He curled tighter around himself, wondering how to get it out.

_You want to get rid of me?_

He hummed louder, trying to drown it out.

_That's cruel, Harry. I've done a lot to return to you, and you're starting to make me angry._

"Go away. Please. I'm sorry. Just go away"

_That's not good enough, Harry. You don't mean it. You don't even understand yet. You're still not mine, are you?_

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" he yelled, screaming through tears.

The metal frame of the bed screeched across the floor as Dyre felt a dismembered hand stroke the side of his face. It pushed down his waist, skimming the outside of his thighs. Another hand coiled around his wrist.

_You exist only for me, Harry. Already, your body knows. But I'll have to teach your mind._

He screamed as his finger dug into his eye. Blood spurted, running hot to pool in his ear. There was a frenzy of hands trying to get to him, knocking away the beds. The nightstand crashed and glass hit the floor. Despite several grips trying to wrench his hand away, the hold remained fixed. He felt his finger tear into the orb and twist. Dyre screamed, thrashing his head. Hands held to his limbs, yelling at him.

Finally, he grit his teeth and lied still, bearing the agony like he'd been trained to so long ago. His hand went limp, releasing the gored remains of his eye. It was slammed against the floor. He could feel the gristle beneath his nail. Pain radiated like a heat, whimpers escaping despite himself.

It was dark. He was blind. He felt himself release a rough desperate sound, face breaking. Helpless. Useless. Having blinded himself with his own hand. He couldn't imagine what he must look like.

_Maybe you will remember me next time, Harry Potter_.

The voice drifted before fading back into whatever realm housed it. Dyre trembled and cried.

Someone was working to heal him. There were people bearing down his limbs to keep him from hurting himself again, but he hardly felt it. He remained pinned, allowing the magic to rush through him. He did not assist in the healing, though he could.

Useless. Worthless. He was unreal.

He couldn't even defend himself from his own hand. Was this to how he was going to end? Was this the despair of having a master with the will to control him? With the will to use him?

The pain lessoned as Narcissa Malfoy reconstructed his eye, inhibiting the receptors at the same time. He remained blind, but the feel of his eye was there, the healing no different a pain than the injury. No one let him up, but at least they did not use spells. He would not have been able to bear it. The comfort of their flesh was intense, embarrassingly so. They warmed his wrists and shoulders, his knees and feet, even as they bruised him. All of them there. He didn't know if they realized what a relief it was to know that someone was there that he could feel, since he could see nothing.

The last connection was made, and he felt the retina attach itself amongst the veins. He gasped at the sensation, and the small movement made their hands tighten.

"Dyre, can you see?" the woman asked.

He didn't dare open his eyes.

"Dyre, open your eyes," she commanded.

He held them tighter, tears trickling into the blood in his ear.

"Dyre," he heard Draco say somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. "Please, just open your eyes."

"It's alright," Lily said nasally from his shoulder. She sniffled and strengthened her voice. "We won't let anything happen. It's alright."

"Everything's fine, son," James said. "Just open your eyes. We have you."

He rolled his wrist, pleased when whom he thought was Severus pressed down harder. He opened his eyes, blinking. Narcissa showed a light from the end of her wand into the pupil, watching it contract. He nearly cried out again, shutting the lids. She cut the spell, gripping his chin.

"Dyre, I need you to open your eyes and look at me." He took a shaky breath and obeyed. Narcissa waited until a bloody retina was narrowed on her face. "Do you see me?"

"Y-yes."

They heaved a collective sigh of relief.

"Can we let you up?" Sirius asked.

"Are you daft?" Severus snapped. "The boy just tried to blind himself! What in the blue blazes were you thinking?"

"Severus, that is enough," Dumbledore said, the only one of them not kneeling along his body. "Dyre, what happened?"

He opened his mouth and nothing came out. He gave another full body shiver, which every one of them had to feel. He felt so weak. He knew, somewhere, that this was his nature, that the part of him that found this unnatural was his human part. He was meant to be used, to be controlled. Karkaroff was inept. For so long, he thought that was why he chafed at his collar. But no, it wasn't the hand. It was the leash itself.

"Dyre," Dumbledore said in his kind, aged voice. "Dyre, my boy, what happened?"

He breathed out. At last, some measure of calm ran through him. He didn't know if it was a spell. He didn't care.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Dyre. Please, tell us what's wrong."

"No, I mean I'm sorry. I… There are no words, no way for you to understand."

Dumbledore forestalled Severus and asked in the same calming voice, "How do you know?"

"Have you ever been on the ley lines?"

"No," he answered honestly.

"Then you cannot know. You cannot."

Dumbledore tried a different tact. "Why were you on the ley lines?"

Dyre closed his eyes. "Didn't… Mind was… I don't know. I was going mad."

His voice broke as he remembered the feeling of suffocation. His throat didn't hurt, and he couldn't feel the abrasions he had made trying to claw it open. But he had to take a moment to savor the unencumbered breaths he was taking.

After some type of silent debate, the hands started to ease.

"We're going to let you now. Are you going to hurt yourself?"

He wasn't certain, but he shook his head nonetheless. Slowly, he rose to his seat. They had dimmed the lights, but shots of pain still pulsed whether he had his eye open her closed. Someone offered him a vial. It had the smell of a numbing potion. Grateful, he downed it, unbothered even by the rancid taste overwhelming the vomit at the back of his throat. He tasted too late the mild sedative. At once, the thought of sleep terrified and relieved him.

"Dyre," Draco said. "Please, tell us what happened."

They needed to know, he realized. It wasn't just a matter of… he didn't even know. They were scared and they needed to know. That didn't change the fact though that he didn't know what to say. That an impossible thing had touched him. That he was suddenly helpless and vulnerable and he didn't even have a face to fear. Time and time again, they had proven that they _could_ not understand his bonds.

But Draco was begging him for some explanation. Weariness pounded upon his shoulders and he could hardly bear to look at his pale face.

Had he hurt him? Slashed at him, pushed him away? What else could Dyre do to him under the guide of that voice?

"I am a tool, Draco, and I was used. That's all. That's all it was."

o.O.o

This was driving Dyre insane. He pulled the sheet aside, placing it with the other scrapped pieces stacked in ruffled piles on the desk. He stared at the blank sheet of parchment, trying to arrange a form that could do what he required, but the shapes just weren't working.

He set the piece of coal on the table, his fingers and face stained with soot. He rested his forehead against his folded hands, his eye, the working one, throbbing like hot iron. He was supposed to be letting it rest. He wished he had his journals. Better yet, he wished he had his glasses. Then, he could at least search for the answers he needed instead of this tiresome guessing game. He shut his eyes, ignoring the sting and trying to remember his studies.

Dumbledore had given him the room, consisting of nothing but four walls and a single table and chair, so austere it seemed more like a prison, void even of a window. The only light shone from the lamps stationed about the room. The floor was scattered with coal stubs and parchment. He had tried at one point to sketch the various shapes of varying sizes individually and spread them out of the floor, crossing them together. When it didn't help, they had been shoved in a corner. In case he was suddenly struck with inspiration, he did not want to have to go through the trouble of sketching them out again.

"Dyre," someone called behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder, reprimanding himself for not noticing Draco's entrance. He wondered how long he had been standing there. The door was open, revealing Hermione and Victor and, surprisingly, his parents as well. He grunted and turned back to the sheet.

Something with three. But the triangles weren't working. He couldn't discern how to get them to intersect. If only he could remember which number he needed for travel. He should have been paying closer attention to the all-mother. At this rate, he wouldn't even be able to remember which runes he needed.

"Dyre," the voice called again, a little more insistently.

He slid back the chair, the wood grating against the stone. Draco flinched, watching him cautiously, but the violence seemed accidental. Dyre went to a corner of the room to flip through the piles of parchment.

Draco strode purposefully into the room, not impressed with being ignored. Dyre found the sheet and attempted to slip it from the stack. Draco stepped on it.

"Dyre, you need to rest your eye. You've been cooped up in here for four days. You haven't said a word to anybody, and we don't think you've been eating."

Dyre frowned, eying the drawing beneath his boot, but he disregarded the small notion that had captured him, righting himself.

"I'm fine," he said simply.

Numbers ran through his head, but really without knowing the precise significance of them, he was certain only that he needed several threes. He was only half-paying attention to the conversation. No, an octagon wouldn't work as a base. Perhaps for the outer barrier. That might have potential.

"Dyre!" Draco shouted.

He turned to look at him, slightly surprised that he was still there. Draco didn't normally shout. His parents had taught him better tact, but his eyes were blazing furiously. Dyre frowned again, this time fully at Draco, becoming slightly irritated.

"Yes?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

No, he wasn't. His head ached with rough designs and angles and measurements that he could only take raw and the pain radiating from his temples and eye. He swore he saw a rectangle superimpose itself for a second over Draco's face. He blinked, trying to remember what he said.

"No, I have not eaten today. No, I did not sleep last night. Yes, it has to do with the ley lines. Please, my lord," he said. "This is of vital importance and I need to concentrate."

"You missed one of the questions."

He wanted to get back to work. He had only so much time and so much work to do. He hadn't thought sketching out the design would take so long.

"Oh," Hermione suddenly exclaimed, picking up one of the sketches beneath her foot. "This is Droughnot's demonic algorithm! I didn't know you could bend it! Is this arithmancy?"

Dyre shook his head, trying to change gears again, but Hermione's question was much easier to deal with than Draco's.

"The proportion is wrong. I don't have the tools to measure it correctly."

"You did this by hand?" she said incredulously, fingering the interlocking polygons like a tiny animal.

"I'm off slightly on the right angles here," he said, pointing. "It should have made a circle but it's slanted. It doesn't matter," he said, turning away. "Droughnot's rituals only prove useful for banishments. The method has been improved."

"So what are you doing?" she said with more curiosity than concern or annoyance. Unlike Draco.

He found another sheet and wondered if perhaps a triangle could serve as a vertex point like he had originally planned instead of as a base.

"A summoning."

Hermione looked back at the sheet and frowned. "Yes, this wouldn't work at all," she agreed. "What code are you using?"

He made an irritated groan, rifling through pages. "I don't know," he growled. "I know only that I need a magnitude of threes."

She gaped at him. "You don't even have a code?"

He tossed the notes back onto the pile in no noticeable order, ignoring her.

"Why don't you look it up? The library has plenty of arithmancy books."

"They are of no use to me. Where in Hel is that diagram?"

"What do you mean they're no use?" she said, affronted. "Just because they don't rant about demons and battle schematics doesn't mean they're not useful."

Dyre made an irritated gesture with his hand, cutting the motion quick when he realized he was being rude. He made a few crass mutterings, searching beneath the desk.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" she said, her expression mulish.

Dyre seemed to have found a drawing that looked similar to what he wanted. He pulled it up, studying it at an odd angle before growling and shoving it aside.

Hermione made a small sound of startlement. "You're not illiterate, are you?"

"I need my glasses," he said exasperated, looking through another pile. "Thor blast the damn thing!"

"You did all this… _blind_?" Hermione exclaimed

"What diagram are you looking for?" Draco asked, ignoring her.

"It's fine," he said a little more waspishly than he intended.

"Dyre, either you let us help you or I am dragging you out of this room and shoving some food and a sleeping draught forcibly down your throat. Your choice."

Dyre glared at him, not impressed with threats. But Draco merely stared back stubbornly, crossing his arms. Dyre doubted the boy could stun him before he had him disarmed, but the ensuing battle would completely destroy what little peace existed in this room. It would be time consuming, and not to mention, he didn't particularly _want_ to duel the boy.

"What could it hurt to let us help?" Hermione said soothingly, glancing back and forther between the two. "How much time do you have left before the final task anyway?"

Dyre's scowl deepened.

"Stop being a berk," Draco added derisively. "Did you ever consider that we actually _want_ to help you? We have a lot invested in this situation too you know."

No, he didn't. This wasn't their problem. Dyre was the one suffering enslavement. He was the one that had to deal with his body betraying him. Would they even know how to help him?

Hermione might, he reasoned. The realization tore at the barrier he'd placed around himself. This wasn't just his fight. And honestly, the more people the better. There was a likely chance that the price required for this would kill him anyway. He sighed and ran a hand over his face, which was gritty with the coal and lack of sleep.

"Miss Granger, could you please find me a table for the code? An elementary one would do."

She nodded and set off for the library. Victor sent him a look. Dyre nodded, and he went after her, knowing she'd be in the library. His parents were still hovering out of place by the door and had likely been there since he settled down in here. Draco continued to glower at him, daring him to leave him with nothing to do. If he didn't have a roaring headache, he might have found that amusing.

"I will need to speak with Dumbledore. I will need to speak with all of you," he amended.

o.O.o

Dyre was not able to speak to Dumbledore until the next day. He was busily running about Europe to meet with government heads about the felons released in the prison break. It gave Dyre enough time to gather his thoughts and conspire with Hermione in the library.

The girl was a genius. Already, the code had been settled on, a series of threes with a five for travel and a four for the stability necessary to balance the wild vibrations of the five. Everything rounded to an impressive number of symmetrical nines that made him more relaxed just thinking about it. There was something absolutely wonderful in a perfectly balanced equation. The stress and pain of gorging out his eye finally began to fade as the first piece of progress in this grand scheme came together.

Under Draco's instructions, he bathed, ate, and slept, and with the schematics in his head and Hermione's handy notebook, he felt decently prepared to face the small audience that convened in the foyer of Dumbledore's office. The only small problem was that Dyre was unused to giving speeches, especially giving speeches to elder wizards and witches who taught magic and had possibly been performing these types of rituals before he was born.

He threw off the slight nervousness and decided to treat this like he would if he were explaining it to Yrsa.

"The creature that met me on the ley lines knew me," he said without preamble once everyone had settled in seats or against the wall. "It knew something about me that I don't, and I am fairly certain that it is connected to the night I died."

There were some sudden, pained intakes of breath and eye narrowing. He waited for it to die down. When no one spoke, he continued.

"I might know what this creature is."

"What is it?" Sirius Black said.

He held up his hand, expecting the outburst. His eyes closed in a slow blink.

"I would not voice my assumption until I am more sure."

"And what do you need to be sure?" Severus asked, as if on cue.

Dyre held off on the opening though, his expression turning even more sober. "First, I need to tell you the warning I received at the start of this tournament. My name coming from the Goblet was not an accident or chance."

Severus gave him a glower. "We figured that much."

"I do not believe this person is trying to kill me."

That quieted him. Dyre's gaze was serious, resting not on anyone in particular.

"The events of the last few days have developed a pattern. The eruption of Dark artifacts circulating the populace, the slight increase of power in Dark incantations. Those with magical sensitivity are collapsing, and I would wager even the seers are starting to accept the sickness. The Death magicks are starting to surface more readily. You know the consequences of this," he said directly to Dumbledore.

The man's face was strangely grim, his sparkling eyes mellow behind his spectacles.

"The magicks are out of balance."

Dyre inclined his head in a respectful nod. "I believe that the creature hunting me on the ley lines, my participation in the tournament, the breakout in Azkaban and the unequal balance of the magicks are interconnected."

"That's a long stretch, Dyre," Lucius said calmly.

"'Will you be mine, Harry Potter?'" he said. "'Onto death do us part? One to control and one to obey. Let us make a necropolis of this world, oh prophetic hero?' This is what the creature spoke to me on the lines," he said.

"Why didn't you say anything before?" Draco said heatedly.

"It portends an understanding of me that I was not ready to accept," he said evenly. "This creature has a power over me that even Karkaroff does not. With him, I still retain somewhat of my will."

His gaze was cloudy, mouth moving into an ugly line.

"I am in foreign waters," he said darkly. "And I am drowning."

"S-so," Sirius said shakily in the long silence that followed the rather painful image. "What are you planning to do?"

Dyre looked up at him, returning from that deep place that serviced his nightmares. "I will call for aid." He paused, shifting himself on his seat and licking his lips in a manner that might have been nerves. "If the creature knows more of me than I do, it can mean only so many things. Something happened when I was still Harry Potter that became the catalyst that killed me, gave me the Eye of Odin, and branded my soul to enslavement. If this is not the price of my survival, the outcome of cause-and-effect, then it was planned and I need to find out by whom and for what purpose."

He took a breath. "I need to find out why the Dark Lord killed me."

There was silence in the room, and Dyre did not seem inclined to break it this time.

Lily licked her lips. "The Dark Lord was after you because we had refused to join him."

"No," he said sharply. "He was after you for me. Killing me was not an act of revenge."

"How can you be so sure?" Remus asked.

"I am not," the boy admitted. "But I intend to find out."

"Once again," Severus said in that lazy drawl, dark eyes intense. "How?"

He was ready this time. "I will summon the Norns."


	20. Through Salt and Sulfur

_Thence come maidens_

_much knowing_

_three from the hall_

_which under that tree stands;_

_Urðr hight the one,_

_the second Verðandi,_

_on a tablet they graved,_

_Skuld the third;_

_Laws they established,_

_life allotted_

_to the sons of men,_

_destinies pronounced._

~ _Völuspá_ (Prophecy of the Völva) from the Poetic Edda

It was quiet for all of two seconds before Victor exploded in Bulgarian. The two men battled back and forth for a moment in native tongues, Victor yelling and Dyre responding with a hint of iron. The Bulgarian suddenly pointed angrily at Hermione. Dyre gave him a hard look and said something that made Victor relax marginally, though he still was quite upset. He retook his seat, scowling.

Dyre turned back to the Englishmen, undaunted.

"The Norns are old goddesses, masters of the weaving. They will know which thread beget this tapestry and where it will lead."

"One does not just summon gods, Dyre," Dumbledore said.

"No," he agreed. "Particularly such gods at the Norns. I will not be using a standard summoning circle. I wish to express an invitation, one which they will be unlikely to refuse but not incapable."

"Because of your eye," Lily said, staring at him.

"Yes," he said simply.

Severus sniffed, rolling his eyes slightly.

"That's what you've been working on?" Draco said. "This invitation?"

"Sounds like you have to build ritual circle from scratch," Lucius said before he could answer.

"Don't envy you," Sirius muttered mirthlessly.

Dyre hummed. It would help if he could write his notes down, but without his glasses, he would have to pull the sheet all the way to his nose and squint to read it. Really, he'd just rather memorize everything.

With a huff, Victor nudged his side and gruffly extracted his glasses from his belt. Dyre stared blankly at them. He spoke again in Icelandic though they caught the name Karkaroff. Victor gave him an unimpressed stare, which made Dyre's eyes crinkle with a suppressed smile. He took them with a nod of thanks.

"I didn't know you wore glasses," Sirius said, making Severus scoff.

Dyre shrugged with only his head. He slipped the frames into the collar of his tunic and leaned forward.

"There are no existing circles for what I want."

"Why don't we work on it together?" Dumbledore suggested, transfiguring a quill and parchment.

Dyre made a disgruntled face but declined protest after a moment. Dumbledore laid the sheet over the coffee table and gave an encouraging smile. Dyre sighed and pulled out his glasses again. They were crude things, the frame made from wire, the right eye empty. Odd things on his severe face.

He dipped the quill in an inkwell and with careless calligraphy sketched the runes that he needed and the code horizontally in the margin. The group leaned over to examine it.

Dyre set it aside and pulled a few thinner scrolls out of his tunic. He unrolled them and dipped the quill in again. Quickly, he sketched two of his previous, discarded designs. The first was a nonagon, and Draco could see the problem. The sides connected, but it was horribly unsymmetrical and some of the points went unused. It looked crude and unstable even on paper. The second was a triangle, and it had the same problem.

"Have you thought of changing the code?" Remus said, studying the lines.

Dyre shook his head. "This is what we need. Anything else and they either disregard the message or it won't be strong enough to reach them."

"Does it have to be symmetrical?" Lily asked.

"It would be best," he said. "These are much too disorderly."

Lucius thumbed the edge of a line. "What if you were to make the perimeter a circle?"

Dyre nodded. "But what would be the base?"

"You should trash the nonagon," Severus said. Dyre looked up. "It's obviously screwing the rest of the lines. You don't have to have a point for every line. Just reuse some points and adjust the runes."

Dyre's eye flickered behind the spectacle. He pulled the first parchment to him. He hesitated only a moment before drawing the circle, amazingly symmetrical. Then, with much more care, he drew three acute triangles inside it, one pointing straight up and two other dissecting it from either side. He emphasized the points that each corner made.

"That's still a nonagon," Severus scoffed. "And an uneven one at that."

Dyre ignored him. With precision, he connected five of the points.

Hermione gasped and clapped her hands. "Brilliant!" she exclaimed.

"But those two points aren't even connected," Sirius said.

"And there is no center," Remus added.

"But that's the beauty of it!" Hermione declared. "It's a living circle! You're going to have it move aren't you?" she directed at Dyre.

Without waiting for an answer, she unearthed another quill and took a corner of the table. In one of the unmarked regions, she redrew the circle and the hexagon. This time, the points of the triangles rested on the unused points rather the base of the first triangle. The interlocking triangles formed another set of four smaller triangles and a diamond in the center.

"This is what you want, isn't it, Dyre? This is absolutely brilliant! It'll act just like a door. And the code fits perfectly! Now you just need the runes."

He shook his head. "I know the runes," he said. He stared down at the rough sketch as if he couldn't believe it had been that easy.

"It is amazing what you can achieve when you combine your efforts," Dumbledore said with a smile.

"You aren't doing this alone, are you?" Draco demanded.

Slowly, as if still half in shock, he shook his head. "I need you to stand at the points."

Draco smiled, pleased.

Victor released a gruff grunt. "Hermione'll not be in the ritual."

Before Hermione could protest, Dyre nodded. "I need only nine."

"But, Dyre, I want to see it work. A ritual like this has never happened before."

"Do not allow your desire for knowledge to cloud your judgment," he snapped suddenly. Hermione drew back, startled. Dyre gave her a grim glare, softening only slightly under her wounded expression. "This could not have been completed without you, my lady. You have great intellect, but you are inexperienced. You do not need to be there and anything else is vanity."

Hermione glanced down at her lap.

"Maybe you should tell us what will be expected," Lucius said.

Dyre nodded. "The Norns will offer three answers to three questions. No more. No less. And after, they will demand a price."

"What sort of price?" James asked guardedly.

Dyre gave another polite shrug. "The price of knowledge." He paused. "Sometimes, it is proper to acquire sacrifices, things of value or power to offer them." His brow drew down in thought, examining the circle.

"I don't think prepared items will work this time."

"Why not?" Sirius asked.

He thumbed the edge of the parchment. "I'm not asking them for an action. For something to be done. The summoning is a circle as well," he mused, though only Lucius and Dumbledore nodded in acknowledgement. "They will take from each point," he said, touching the tips of the nonagon so that names appeared beneath his fingers in gold print. "No one values the same thing. And I do not have the time to look for articles of power."

"You are not alone, Dyre," Dumbledore reminded him.

Dyre blinked and returned to the map. "Yes," he said slowly. "Knowledge is power," he softly said, "but the geometry is not symbolic of physical matter." He closed his eyes, thinking quietly and still. "No, they will ask for time."

When he didn't speak again, Severus sent him a disgusted glower. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Life," Dyre said, as if it were obvious. He pulled a face and said a word in Icelandic. Victor gave a small commiserating look but had no answer. "Time in a life," he said. "Everyone has a time to live. Life."

"Lifetime," Draco said.

"Yes." He gave an irritated look. "They will take this, cut the lifetime. I don't know how else to explain it."

"I think we understand," Lucius said.

"How much will they take?" James asked.

Dyre shook his head. "It's complicated. Only god-eyes see the length of threads."

"But you have a god-eye," Sirius interrupted.

Dyre stared at him. "You wish me to measure when you will die?"

Sirius grimaced and went still.

"Will they ask for all of it?" Lucius asked, abating the tense silence.

"Of all of us? I think it highly unlikely. There is no cunning in such murder." His expression turned frustrated and he moved his hands to cover his jaw.

Gods don't do anything directly. If the gods were involved, there was a story in this. If there wasn't, then he was just wasting his time. The circle would fail. But he was sure, so sure. The voice in the ley, the riddle it gave, where there were riddle there was a god.

It was strange, being bred for a story. He wasn't entirely sure that this tournament was part of the climax or a stepping stool. It had the rhyme of tapestry, but of everything he'd experienced here, he found it so hard to imagine himself the hero. He just wanted to be free. He wasn't fighting for some great cause, had no resolve but the very human desire to live. He wasn't winning kingdoms or claiming the fall of monsters. Even with his mysterious, unwanted god-eye, he was doing nothing of worth save holding Draco's hand, and he doubted the great weavers of the world would care much about that.

"Dyre?"

He shook himself, ridding such thoughts.

"They cannot ask for my lifetime. This is why I need you to stand at the foci."

"Why?" Remus was first to voice. "I mean, why can't they?"

"You need us to be your price?" Lucius added.

Dyre hesitated. Then, he sighed. "I am… not sure what my own lifetime looks like. I seem to be… mostly mortal," he said, staggering. "It is obvious I was born mortal," he continued in a rush. He touched his head. "But I've survived death and madness. Some I know was by the Maiden's grace, by my curse as well, but the mixing of immortality is not an easy thing. I am still limited by my own understanding."

"What does all that mean?" James asked.

Dyre shook his head helplessly. "It means that my lifetime might have already ended."

They paled. There was nothing Dyre could do. For a moment, he was sure they were going to argue with him but they didn't. He didn't know if that relieved or aggrieved him.

"We're in," James said suddenly.

"I cannot divide the points," he said. "There are nine foci. I must either have them all or none. The ritual will not work."

He actually found it rather amazing that the circle worked out like this. Nine spaces. Nine people. With him on the outside as castor. It made him more nervous than comforted.

"I'm in," Draco said.

"Count us both in," Sirius said for him and the wolf, who gave a firm nod, eyes bright with gold.

"Of course," Lily said passionately, her own eyes wet and fierce.

"I will gladly assist you, my dear boy," Dumbledore smiled.

"If my scion is determined to risk his life, then we have no choice but to follow," Lucius said briskly, though a slight smirk in the corner of his mouth conveyed his pride. Narcissa smirked beside him.

"You've all gone mad," Severus said bitterly.

Dumbledore patted his head. Severus snarled and batted his hand away.

Dyre stared at them all. So willing to give up their lives… He looked down at the sketch. It was perfect. Everything had fallen into place. Already, he was reconstructing the runes he needed, assigning the points along the compass and matching the directions to their magicks.

Skuld.

He was already beginning to regret this.

o.O.o

Dyre checked the measurements he had taken again, though he doubted that the level of anyone's magic had changed in the last three minutes. The room in the dungeons was dark, fouled by disuse. The dust had been cleared out, the rats scattered, and the small animal bones banished. He had scrubbed everything clean of any residual magic, natural or otherwise. The stones were stark and sturdy, perfect for what he needed.

With a measuring rod and a bottle of sulfur, he laid out the lines. The yellow powder looked strange on the stone. It smelled awful, but it was the least confining of the heavenly substances, the triad of ascension. In mercury, he drew the triple spiral in the center and laid the runes in salt. It was painstaking work, started in chalk and washed and redrawn whenever he missed more than half a degree.

But finally, the points crossed perfectly. The tip of the pentagon pointed north. Dumbledore, the most powerful of them, was to stand there atop _pertho_, the tipped cup. The other four points were assigned _isa_ for stability. The rune was only a single line, the most malleable but also the strongest. He put Remus along the _isa_ in the east, the transformation magic of the were combining with the birth magic of the rising sun. Lily would stand at the _isa_ southeast, James along southwest and Sirius in the west, each couple on the opposite end of the other.

Lucius and Narcissa would occupy the two remaining end points of the triangles, Narcissa in the east since she was a mother. He scribed the rune of knowledge beneath them. Draco would take an eastern point as well, on either side of Remus and Lily. His youth would allow him the rejuvenation of the rising sun. Severus would stand at the other lonesome point, too Dark for anything other than west. Beneath both of them were _eihwaz_, the spinning Yggdrasil, the rune of wisdom, that which contained the mystery of life and death.

Dyre wasn't sure what the importance of that was yet. Only that the runes fit and that Draco and Severus were the only ones among them capable of taking root at the lonesome tips of where the triangles would move to. The bonding spells between the couples would otherwise interfere with the solidarity.

He remeasured everything then added the _ansuz_ runes to the four triangles that the triangle bases created. That would change when the circle activated, adding two hollow triangles towards the center, but it was a small enough slight.

He shut the journal, reaching to take off his glasses. The candles would stay in the four corners of the room, each at a cardinal direction. Flames were probably a bad idea – too wild – but they needed to see anyway, and water would wash away the salt and sulfur. Though wood, he mused.

He nodded, making a note to ask Dumbledore for wooden stubs to replace the wax. He'd have to ask everyone to remove any spells on their robes. Protection spells, even a warming charm, could disrupt the balance of the circle. He opened the door and blinked when he saw all nine of them standing there with a conjured table, scones and playing cards.

"Finished?" James asked.

He gave a mental shake. "I need four wooden stubs. Preferably not from the Forest," he added, thinking of all the Dark magic lingering there, though all fairly natural. "A forest near a muggle village would be best."

Lily was the one who offered to go, taking a brisk walk to the Floo in her quarters.

"If any of you are under any spells or have any on your robes, you need to remove them."

The Malfoys, Severus, and Dumbledore knew well enough that the circle would react badly to foreign magicks and had dressed appropriately. Sirius grumbled, removing his cloak and rings and passing his wand over his shirt. Remus was fine, but James too had to remove his cloak, adding his insignia ring to the table.

"What?" Sirius teased Draco as he undressed. "No glamour charms, princess?"

"You might want to remove the extension charm in your trousers, uncle," he shot back.

"Oi! You little prat, I'll have you know that is purely natural. Right Remus," he leered.

"Leave me out of your perversions," the werewolf said lazily, adding a queen to his game of solitaire.

"Well that's no fun," he grinned then slipped off his shoes to remove his socks.

"You charm your socks," Lucius said, a brow tilted.

"They last three weeks longer without a wash," he said proudly.

They scrunched their noses.

"That is foul, Sirius," Narcissa said, glaring at him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. Remus shook his head, receiving several pitying glances. Sirius suddenly turned his attention to Dyre, giving him a suggestive leer.

"You just wanted to see me strip."

Dyre raised his brow in a slightly Malfoyish manner and did not respond, but his gaze slid to Draco, who struggled not to smile. Sirius let out a shit-eating grin. He spun around on his heel and deposited himself on Remus' lap, which scattered the cards and trapped his hands beneath his weight awkwardly.

"Well, at least Remus'll appreciate me."

"Get off."

Dyre ignored the animagus and removed his belt, which held his dirk and ritual dagger. He kept the switchblade in his boot. He'd played with the small, compatible blade a couple of time, not enough to feel satisfied but enough to know that it would not interfere with any of the magicks. It could not hurt to have it. Though attacking the Norns with a switchblade was ludicrous.

He looked to Dumbledore. "I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to leave your wand out here."

Dumbledore didn't look surprised, removing the wand from his sleeve. He set it beside Dyre's belt.

"What about ours?" Sirius asked curiously.

"I dare not leave you completely unarmed," he said a little sharper than he intended. "Though what good it would do is uncertain."

He stared as Severus' arm for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

"You know of the Mark," the man said. It wasn't a question, since this had been the second time his arm had caught the lad's attention.

His eyes narrowed a little. "It is familiar. Karkaroff bears the same magic as does the scar on my eye."

Severus' head snapped up with an audible pop. "Your eye?"

"Just the scar," he said, unperturbed. "I have wondered before if it is this which causes his control over me." It was said absent-mindedly, but he had their stanch attention.

"What about the crest?" Draco asked. "You know." He pointed awkwardly to his back, looking sheepish.

"Of course," Dyre said. "It was a passing thought. Coincidence."

Draco frowned. "I thought you said there was no such thing as coincidence. Only skuld."

Dyre gave a full-body shudder, like someone had walked over his grave.

"Well, that was ominous," Sirius said when it became silent.

"That was not good," Dyre said seriously. He looked at the door behind him, an uneasy look on his face.

"Superstition," Severus waved off with a sneer.

"This is an omen," Narcissa said, holding her elbow while she placed her finger on her lips.

"For what?" Sirius asked.

She grunted at him and sent him an irritated look. "I don't know, Sirius," she said waspishly.

He gave her an offended look, making a face. "Sor-ry."

Footsteps were heard down the hall, and Lily appeared with a bundle of sticks before the Blacks could get into a squabble.

"Sorry," she panted. "I didn't really know what you wanted. Will this do?"

"Certainly, my lady. My thanks," he said, taking the twigs from her.

She brushed off her blouse and skirt. "You can call me Lily," she said quietly.

Dyre gave her a slightly uncomfortable look but didn't reply. He went into the room, leaving the door open. They gathered at the threshold to peer inside.

"Woah," Sirius said. "This looks… complicated."

"Much too complicated for you, Black," Severus sneered. "I must admit that this is impressive work. And it will move?"

"Yes," Dyre answered simply, blowing out the northern candle and moving counterclockwise in lighting the brush.

It did not shed as much light, casting the room in long shadows that somehow mysteriously did not touch the circle, which remained visible as if the candles had not been extinguished. Dyre was sweating by the time he finished. He patted a cloth across his forehead, trying not to desecrate the floor.

Damn it, he probably should have bathed. They all should have bathed. Nevermind it, he decided. There was no way of reading the time down here, but it would be morning soon. That would be the best time to start. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers.

"Headmaster, if you would stand right here," he directed, keeping everyone else past the door.

Dumbledore obeyed. He touched the man's arm and felt for the channel of his magic. He tied a strand to the base of the rune and felt it move across the lines, hitting four other points then another two. Dumbledore shivered.

"Are you alright, sir?" His eyes were intense on his face. Strong emotions might disrupt the summons.

"Rather startled but just fine, my boy."

He nodded. Odin, this had better work. He brought Severus in next, anchoring his magic – more gently – to one of the two points that Dumbledore's magic could not yet reach. He called Draco to occupy the other. One by one, he directed them to the runes and chained their magic. The sulfur began to glow faintly like saffron, clogging the air with a putrid stench. The salt's glow was slower, but soon a faint scent like ocean rode beneath the hellish flavor. The mercury shone wetly in the center, gleaming.

He'd warned them already to neither speak nor move. Power swarmed the air, sizzling. Magicks started to crack, Light and Dark rubbing against one another in nettlesome friction. Their hair stood on end. Dyre darted around the circle, sealing the last of their magicks together. The vibration started up in their bones, making their teeth ache. Dyre was suddenly very grateful for the fours, which kept them from exploding.

He had considered using incantations to invite them, but actions spoke so much louder than words. Bowing his head beneath the growing pressure in the room, which made his ears pop, he rose his hand. Like it was seizing around an imaginary block, his fingers tightened, the tendons in stark contrast. He closed his eyes and felt the circle, felt the lines, the conflicting magicks, the sun rising slowly like a pendulum in the east.

It was beautiful, this symmetry, the power coursing so superbly through the lines he had created. Like an art. He felt the strain, the way the world wasn't sure if it wanted to follow him. His muscles quivered, throbbing painfully, but he held onto the circle.

_Don't force it_, he heard the Maiden's voice. _The Earth flows, Dyre. Do not seek to interrupt it. It cannot be controlled. Ride it. It wants you to accept it, to love it. Ride it._

He waited for the moment, the moment when a cock started to crow outside Hagrid's garden, when the sun peeked past the first of the many hills of Scotland, when the ripples of the Great Lake seemed to yawn. That moment when the world deemed the morning…

There!

He rode the power of the earth waking. His hand moved counterclockwise east to west. He could feel the lines of sulfur shifting, hear the drawl like whispers of sand and paper. The triangles turned like an hour hand, one to the west and one to east. Simultaneously, one landed at Draco and the other at Severus, both of whom ogled at the structure teeming beneath their feet. The diamond created by the triangle moved perfectly over the triple spiral, the three curved legs of the maiden, mother, and crone.

Dyre's left eye sparked to life. He felt it teeming with memory, glowing, and he allowed it. The air was heady with so much power it was painful, making his teeth and bones crack, his skull vibrate. He breathed in the salt, which somehow overrode the sulfur, allowing it to refresh him. The fires' crackle was the only warning he got before he suddenly knew.

They were here.


	21. The Norns

Because I have now received 100 reviews for this story, I've decided not to indulge base cruelty and make you all wait god knows how long after that horrible cliffhanger. Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It means the world, even if it's just to say that you liked the story.

And onwards!

* * *

_illr er dómr norna_

_ grim is the doom of norns_

~ _Hlöðskviða_ (The Battle of the Goths and Huns)

Unnatural shadows consumed the circle, the mythical barriers that separated the worlds breached. The rosy-orange tint of the fires in the corner provided too little light. Dyre removed the cloth that bound his eye. He didn't have to wait for his vision to adjust. He saw them.

Black mist oozed from the center of the circle, coiling in sensual strokes. He watched a foot test the air like the tongue of a snake. It rested on the stone. Then, like a breath, a body pulled through the mist, chest first then neck.

Wyrd.

She was young, no older than Yrsa. Her limbs were svelte, pale as milk. Dyre's eyes were drawn to her ankles, beautiful slender things that reached on tiptoe to crawl out of the mist. She was naked, her body unmarked, rosy nipples just like a boy's. Her smooth sex and long waves of black hair were the only indications of gender. Freshly brushed and gleaming, it followed the line of an athletic back. She smiled as she landed, pausing in the action of removing her left foot with her arms extended, elbows bent like a ballerina. She had a cute face that Dyre was startled to realize, in some strange, indefinable way, resembled his own. Her eyes were hollow and empty, revealing not the back of her skull but blackness like the bottom of an inkwell, wet and cold.

She caught his stare with her own empty one and smiled.

A hand reached through the shadows and grabbed her shoulder. Her body tilted like a newborn colt. Using her collar for balance, the arm that followed, meatier and colored like soft brass, hosted a body from the between-verses. The others could see by now and watched as the second sister emerged from the fog.

Ver∂andi was older, caught somewhere in the years between 23 and 50. Her nipples were tinged a painful red, breasts swollen. The curves of her hips were deep, forming into the triangle that made a dark curtain of her gender. She too had something of Harry's face, morphed and perverted into lushness. Dark hair curled more roughly around her shoulders than her sister's, a wild thicket that rolled in tangles instead of soft waves. Like the mane of a wild mare. Her lips were fat, deep maroon, cheeks flushed a healthy rouge that emphasized the brownish-gold pallor of rich skin. Her eyes were blown, the pupils dilated far past the iris. She appeared to Dyre as a beast.

The first thing to appear of the crone was her head, which was bent painfully over a hunched back, the vertebrae exposed like teeth. Her eyes were blind, the rims stained with crust. Her skin sagged, making her face long. Her breasts drooped over her exposed belly like gutted sacks. Her knobby elbows were tucked into her side, her hands gnarled with long yellow fingernails that curled brokenly from knuckles fat with arthritis. She slunk into the room, shaking and wobbling. Lank, grey hair sparsely covered her scalp.

Skuld, possibly the most powerful of them.

"Dyre Harald Durmstrang," she said in a high-pitched croak that revealed the single tooth in her mouth. "Son of no one, house of nothing."

Dyre frowned.

"Dyre Harald Durmstrang, son of no one, house of nothing," she repeated.

Dyre bowed his head. "Skuld."

The virgin girl swung out her arms gracefully, her feet moving like they wanted to fly. She started humming softly, eying Dyre with a wistful smile. She danced across the circle, sneaking teasing glances at the wizards and two witches.

"I have questions," Dyre said, watching her.

"We have answers," she said in a quiet voice, regarding him with that eerily empty stare. "Three question you may ask.

"No more," Ver∂andi said.

"No less," the crone finished.

Dyre regarded the young girl, Wyrd. She lifted her brow and giggled, making a move to touch Draco's cloak.

"What happened?" he said quickly. "On the night of All Hallow's Eve, the night I died?"

She stared up at Draco. The blond was pale and looked very much like he longed to lean away, smart boy. Then, she gave another wistful smile and twirled around her sisters, ending on her right foot, stretching all the way to her toe. She regarded Dyre with a fond if eerie look.

"The night you died, you say," she hummed.

Her left leg remained extended, her hands following the line of his face but not touching.

"Tis a tale of betrayal," she said. "A tale of greed, little hero. Are you certain you can face my answer?"

Dyre regarded her with a sharp look.

The leg came down but she remained on her toes, her arms crossed. She twirled and her arm slashed the air. Her empty eyes regarded him like a spider, head moving in the way of animals with long necks. She turned to the rip, and the grey faded. In the shimmering gap, Lily Potter, younger and with hot copper in her hair, walked into a living room. She held a baby in her arms, asleep against her shoulder.

"Once upon a time," Wryd said, "in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a queen and her king."

James Potter joined the Lily, the tired lines around his eyes greatly diminished. He settled over her shoulder, regarding the babe in her arms. Dyre studied the picture they made, trying to imagine himself in their arms, but he could not. He dared not glance at the living two who made the image.

Wyrd made a small sound in her throat, like a phoenix. She touched the rim of the rift and like a shift in a ward, folded herself into the imaginary space. She took to Lily's other shoulder, watching the child while James continued to laugh.

"And all they ever wanted," she said, her fair skin glowing amongst the earthy warmth of the past, "was a child."

The Lily in the picture gave Wryd a smile and handed the child over. Wryd cradled it, fiddling with the edge of the blanket to reveal a sleeping face. James gave them both a grin and took his wife's hand, walking out of the living room. Wryd continued to hold the child.

"A gorgeous boy," she said. "As dark as he was fair. A child touched by Fate."

Wyrd took the blanket from him. The child was naked beneath. She held him up to the light, watching his face as he gummed his fingers and kicked. She tucked him back to her shoulder and leaped. The colors of the living room swirled in a strange mix of warmth and cold. She landed in a dark room in a spiral, a green fire blazing in an open hearth. She walked to a table barely lit by the flames. A man had been writing, but the quill stopped in his hand.

Dyre thought him to be in his fifties. The lines in his face had only just started to set in. He was clean-shaven and handsome in the way a boulder jutting jagged above a stream might be. His hair, just showing signs of steely grey, was combed back, lending clear view to astonished, dark eyes.

Wyrd handed the babe over to him. He stumbled out of his seat to hold out his arms. Harry squirmed in his unfamiliar grip, the man having no idea how to hold him.

"If you wish this world, you will need him," Wryd spoke to him.

"An infant," he said derisively, staring at the child in disgust.

"The key to all you desire."

Voldemort did not look like he believed her. She held back out her arms. Voldemort stared at the child, just starting to cry. His eyes became cynical, and he hesitated in giving him back. Gradually, Wyrd took the child.

"Know him well, Tom Riddle. One day, he will be yours," she said, cradling the child. "This child will be the key to the death of the world." She smiled. "Or the death of you."

Riddle's eyes were fastened on the child. He licked his lips, his pupils glossing. "What must I do to attain him?"

Wyrd smiled. "What you do best, Dark Lord."

He moved around his desk, though Wyrd had not moved to leave. "What if I want him back?"

She laughed and did not answer. He breathed through his nostrils, his gaze fixed on the infant.

"Where can I find him?" he asked at last.

She turned her gaze to the boy as well, and her expression could have been called sweet. "This child will be born under prophecy. Born as the seventh month dies, he will be touched by a son of Fenrir and by the hellhound Garmr. On the night of the last moon of the Samhein, his enemy will come to him. One to control and one to obey, one to die so the other may live. Born as the seventh month dies, a hero will walk through the nine worlds to the Isle of Mists."

"A son of Fenrir and a hellhound," he whispered.

Wyrd's empty gaze remained on him as she began to fade into shadow. The rip followed her entrance back into the living room of the Potter household. She walked up the stairs and laid Harry in his crib. Then, she spirited away again. The rip spun to watch a portly man begging beneath Voldemort's wand, a sadistic smirk on the Dark lord's gentlemanly face. Then, Lily and James were running out of the house to Sirius's bed. Peter Pettigrew was opening the door to Godric's Hollow. Peter was leaning over the child, shaking his head, snot and tears running down his face. A curse blasted Peter Pettigrew apart.

Lily released a mauled scream from the circle, covering her mouth with her hand. She remained on her feet, and no one noticed her.

In the rip, Voldemort smiled down at the child, his mouth moving against words that they could not hear. Dyre read his lips and his eyes narrowed. The tip of his wand glowed green. The curse fired and enveloped everything in light.

The rip faded. Wyrd watched them, a small smile on her hollow face. Dyre stared at her.

He could feel the others thinking, swarmed by what they had seen. He waited another moment before turning his attention to the middle sister. Her hooded eyes melted. Wyrd danced over to her, touching her belly with gentle fingers. She watched Dyre over her shoulder.

"What waits for me in the ley lines?"

Ver∂andi smiled at him, a coy thing that reminded him of pleasure-knives and deceit. Her breasts wept slightly with greenish-black ichor. Her gait was less like air and more like fluid. She tipped a bruised-tinted finger beneath his jaw. He followed the moment, not allowing it to touch him.

"You know who, lost warrior."

He stared into her irises, blown into the blackness of lust. Ver∂andi smiled again, her finger drawing a line in the air under the Eye of Odin. Dyre shivered and stepped back. Her lips broke out into a grin, but she backed away, her hair streaming behind her.

Dyre regained control of his heart, disturbed to find his palms sweaty. "What must I do? What must I do to stop him?"

The crone laughed him, the flakes of her skin making it hard to meet her gaze.

"To stop him? There is no stopping him. There is no escape for you, Dyre Durmstrang."

"I don't want to escape him," he argued. "I want to defeat him."

Skuld laughed louder. He glared at her before averting his eyes. Wyrd giggled, covering her mouth.

"You know what is to come," Skuld said, sucking soothingly on her tooth. "Can you say it is not writ in your bones?"

"No," Dyre hissed.

"Then you know," she said.

"There is always a choice," he said.

She smacked her crumbling lips, revealing a sickly pale tongue, and did not answer.

"This is the weave," Wyrd said.

"Choice is an illusion," Ver∂andi said, eying him with a knowing smolder.

"No," the crone said, puffing out her lip. "He only made the choice a lifetime ago."

Ver∂andi rolled her eyes.

Dyre was undaunted. "If you understand the choice, you can change it."

"Do you really believe that, Dyre?" Wyrd asked, staring with her nothing-eyes. "You are not human, Dyre." She looked down at his chest and came closer. "You are not real in this world. You've broken yourself, and they care for only a shadow. You know this."

Dyre didn't respond. His face darkened. Wyrd danced to him so softly her toes barely touched the floor. Fingers like silkworm webs soothed along his cheek.

"You were not meant to last. For as long as you remain in this life, you will be alone."

"Is this your prophecy?" Dyre asked with a cold stare.

She drew back, her face for a moment unbelievably young. Ver∂andi put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her into the line.

"What is payment?" Dyre said.

The three looked between each other.

"1,098 moons."

"Three years?"

"From them," Ver∂andi said, looking around the circle.

For a second, her face was sad, full of yearning, but it made her no less great. She lingered over James and Lily, and her eyes became black holes, swirling and pulling. Then, she was smoldering once more.

Dyre nodded. "And me?"

The crone moved. Her milky eyes, like a drowned rat's, rattled in her skull. She turned her head like a vulture to stare at him. She extended her hand, and suddenly she was in front of him, unbearably close and smelling of spoiled potatoes. Unnerved, Dyre recoiled, foot slightly sliding.

"To save the world," she rasped. "You will die."

His chest pulled tight, forcing a gasp. He opened his mouth and had his words stolen.

The crone grabbed his wrist. The grip was iron and sunless. She pulled him into the circle, making him stumble through the salt. He held his hand up, telling the others not to move. Thank Odin they obeyed.

The crone hunched over him, impossibly large and bat-like. Dyre flinched, impressed and intimidated despite himself. She smiled and bent to hiss in his ear.

"You will die, Dyre Harald Durmstrang, son of no one, house of nothing. You will die and no one will save you."

"Through the eye of god, we see no evil," the virgin said, circling him. "It is but a veil of truths. We seek the all-seeing."

"One with the tongue of Jörmungandr and the eye of Odin approaches," the mother chanted, playing with the tips of her breast. Her blown eyes swallowed him. "Born as the seventh month dies, he will be touched by a son of Fenrir and by the hellhound Garmr."

"He will cry and no one will hear him," the crone foretold, ragged nails biting his skin. "He will die and no will save him."

"On the night of the last moon of the Samhein, his enemy will come to him," they sang together, joining hands. "And Midgard will be drenched in his salts. A power the Dark Lord knows not resides in the heart of man. One to control and one to obey, one to die so the other may live. Born as the seventh month dies, a hero will walk through the nine worlds to the Isle of Mists. Retrieve the raven Munin. Seek the volva. Beware the trickster's lies and the cane of mistletoe."

"May Thor receive you," the maiden said.

"May Odin own you," the mother said.

"So mote it be," the crone finished.

They drew back to the center, standing in a neat triangle, the triple spiral between them. Dyre watched them, unable even to retreat outside to the safety beyond the circle.

"We will come for you, Dyre Durmstrang," the mother said, smiling. "At the last of your sundering, to pay the price."

He hung his head, shaking it back and forth as he fell to his knees. His fingers brushed salt. "You are false."

"You will die, Dyre Harald Durmstrang," the crone said, drifting into the mist behind her twining sisters. Her voice rang in stone. "You will know pain. You will know helplessness. You will know betrayal. And you will die. Alone."

The Norns faded, leaving the flames to flicker. No one moved, staring at the boy in the midst of the circle. Dyre lifted his head, and his mother's eye blazed.


	22. Am I What I can't Believe in?

_With set jaws they are fighting_

_Fighting, fighting – some we love whom we know,_

_some we love but know not – that_

_hearts may feel and not be numb._

_It cures me; or am I what_

_I can't believe in?_

~ "In a Distrust of Merits" by Marianne Moore

Draco wanted to see Dyre, but he couldn't stand to. He had so many thoughts running around his head that he could hardly think. He didn't know what to do or what to say. He was so confused and hurt and lost.

He _hated_ this. Would it have been better for him to have not come at all if he was just going to _die_? Draco didn't think he was noble enough to say he wished Dyre had stayed safe in Iceland. But this pain… He didn't know what to think. That he only had so much time left… he didn't know what he wanted. To tie Dyre to a bed and lie beside him until the world ended or stay as far away as possible to avoid watching him die. None of this… it didn't matter, was what he wanted to say, to think. It was impossible to orient himself and that was almost as frightening as Dyre's damned prophecy.

Hogwarts had been built like a fort, so there were parts off limits to students, the cells in the dungeons and the north turret. Of the four, three were in use, astronomy, divination, and Gryffindor board, but the north was barred. Below rested the remains of the north wing. Draco did not know what caused the collapse or why it remained untouched, but the tower itself was deemed too precarious for employment, an empty sentinel over the forest and the groundskeeper's hut.

In their fifth year, the Marauders had discovered the password to lift the wards and after a bribe passed the knowledge to Draco. It was here where he came to be alone and think, up the narrow stone steps, walls close and incline high. The windows were broken and allowed quite a draft. He felt the wyvern around his neck, alternating against his skin in warm and cool patches. It was a small comfort.

He had to push all of his weight against the swollen oak door at the top, nudging it with his shoulder. It gave slowly, yielding to the much wider staircase that led straight out of the floor of the battlement. The stone was crumbling but held, bits of lichen and moss grown from the deposits of dust that the wind brought in, nurtured by the open elements.

The March weather was still nippy and tugged insistently at Draco's cloak. He held the cowl close, allowing the collar to flap. The wind hit him, and he crouched against it a moment before retrieving his bearings. With a mighty breath, he flung himself at the balustrade. He breathed in the air and it tasted of rain. The clouds in the west portended a storm, and he could see the shapes of Neville Longbottom and Professor Sprout working to move plants into the greenhouse. The forest spread out, broken by the lake. He could turn and see the road to Hogsmeade, the train station peeking from beneath the curl of trees and the tall hoops of the quidditch field. Behind him, the castle would be an open book.

He released his cloak, allowing the material to flop around him indecently. His hair whipped across his face, and he vaguely recalled the need to trim it. Thunder pounded in the distance, miles out, breeding darkness.

Tears gathered, and he wasn't sure why. They were simple, wetting his lashes but nothing else. He smiled slightly, shutting his eyes against the wind.

The feel of a body behind him, warm and male, startled him only a little. Arms followed his own, resting beside his on the stone. He laid his head back, feeling emotion clog his throat.

_Dyre_. His hands rested atop the boy's, threading their fingers. He wasn't even surprised that he had found him, atop a forgotten, forbidden tower at some random moment of the day when he hadn't approached him in the last four.

"It wasn't supposed to hurt, Dyre," he said, not understanding really what he was saying. "Why is it like this?"

Dyre moved closer, and he felt his chest through his back. He gasped, the muscles in his face twitched as he controlled the conception of more tears. He didn't understand, not at all, how that was supposed to feel painful and safe at once. He shut his eyes, trying to choke his chest.

"I love you."

Dyre rested their cheeks together, eyes closed. The wetness on Draco's face clung to his own. Dyre's nostrils flared as if he was holding in a terrible emotion, but he didn't respond.

"Do you love me?" Draco asked.

"Yes."

Draco sobbed. He forced Dyre's hands to his chest, wrapping their arms together.

"I don't want you to die."

"I won't," he said softly.

"Dyre…"

"Draco," he responded, the word low and heavy like a ball of lead. He moved his mouth in his blond hair. "Have I ever lied to you?"

"No," Draco admitted. "But…"

"But?" Dyre coaxed kindly when he didn't finish.

Draco turned around, his eyes wet and anguished. "But, they're the _Norns_, Dyre."

"They are," Dyre agreed, watching him.

"You've believed in them all this time. You think just because you don't like what they say you can stop? That it doesn't matter anymore?"

Dyre pressed their foreheads together to calm him since his hands were entangled. "I believed in them because they have never been wrong until now."

"You don't know that," Draco yelled. "You can't know that!"

"I can," he said calmly. "I _am_ human, Draco. Maybe not the same way that you are, but I am. They don't know me. I am not just my Fate."

"You were Fated to come here and fight this monster, and it's going to kill you," he cried.

"No," he said firmly.

He took another step forward, pushing Draco against the battlement. He forced their eyes together without touch. Draco felt like he knew that face so well, but how could he when he hadn't kissed every part of it? How could he feel like it belonged to him, as much as it belonged to Dyre as well?

"I was Fated to meet you," he said softly, so solemnly that Draco could not scoff like he wanted to. "I died, Draco, and was sent to a place that taught me to hate men. Then, on an old wizard's whim, I was brought here. I could have remained on the ship. I could have been involved in this Tournament and still never met you. I could never have kissed your hand in that hall. Even now, I don't know why I did that." He looked down between them, at their hands. "That is Fate, Draco. That against all odds, I'm standing here wanting you to stop crying."

Draco shook his head. He wasn't even sure what he was denying, just that Dyre couldn't be serious. He couldn't be that important to him. That he couldn't be that severe about something so ridiculously silly. It wasn't possible.

Dyre nosed into his nape, nudging aside his flyaway hair. The wyvern moved its tail out of the way for Dyre to rest his face in the warm, sensitive area.

"May I kiss you?"

Draco made a choked sound, closing his eyes. "You idiot."

Dyre took that as permission and pressed his lips to his pulse. Draco moved his neck, allowing him everything. His lips stayed at no more than a pressure, moving like butterflies across his throat.

"You're going to die," he whispered, crying again.

"I'm not."

"You're not going to do this anymore."

"I will. If you allow it."

"You won't be here."

"I'll be here for as long as you'll have me."

Draco reveled in the touch of his lips, the way his thumbs rubbed against his fingers, his cheek beneath his jaw.

"Sleep with me," he said suddenly and Dyre paused. "Please. I – don't want this to be all I have."

Dyre drew away to look him in the eye.

"I would much rather marry you."

Draco gaped at him. "W-what?"

"I would rather marry you," he repeated. "With the permission of our parents."

Draco couldn't speak for a moment, his voice not working. "D-Dyre, I'm not… I mean I'm not…" he floundered.

Dyre waited patiently for him to finish, his eyes retaining the same soft warmth of a young bird.

"You don't have to marry me to have sex with me," he ended up saying.

"I would prefer to marry you," he said softly with an understanding smile. "But it matters not. Whatever you want is what we'll have."

Draco stared at him at a loss. That he would even… even think of marriage… Marriage was something for the future, something arranged, with commitments and contracts and ceremonies and, and heirs, and a great deal of things that someone of Draco and Dyre's age just doesn't think about. Marriage was something his parents did. It was forever.

He realized suddenly that he wanted to marry Dyre. This relationship had never been based on sex, but he hadn't realized that he really wanted to share his _life_ with him. Share his life the way his parents did, like James and Lily, and Remus and Sirius. With all those little things that made it so much more than just… than just… attraction.

Something that was meant to last forever.

"You really believe you won't die," he said in awe.

Dyre regarded him without reply.

"And you want to marry me," he said in the same awestruck voice.

Dyre brought his hand to his face and kissed his knuckles like the first time they met.

"Ok," he said quietly.

Dyre smiled. He took his face in hand, his palm still folded beneath Draco's, and kissed him. It was languid, and when Draco opened his mouth, Dyre followed. He tried not to let the sadness still abloom in his chest distract him. Dyre was not cruel, he told himself. He would never allow him such joy only to snatch it away. He was going to trust him because really there was nothing else he could do, and the sound of their names intertwined was too alluring to forsake.

o.O.o

Dyre stood outside his parents' rooms, contemplating how he was going to approach this. Draco had thought it best to talk to his parents alone, and though Dyre wanted them to know that he wasn't scared to ask for the hand of their son, Draco had told him to leave it be.

"This isn't the Middle Ages," he had said with one of those delicate sniffs that he was fairly sure wasn't inherited from Lucius.

He had never thought he was going to get married, so he had never been overly worried by his lack of guardians in this regard. He was fully aware that he was marrying into a house rather than bringing someone in. Dyre Harald Malfoy was… a bit of a stretch though.

He stepped back from the door, raising a hand over his face. He rested against the far wall, bracing himself on the stone. Odin, that he would ever think of such a thing.

He had changed so much this year. He had refused Karkaroff's summons. He had revealed the secret of his animagus. He had taken a young lord as his lover. And now he was standing before his parents' door, trying to find a way to word a marriage proposal.

He was out of his depth. Rationally, he knew that the cruelty he was so used to was beyond James and Lily. They wouldn't reject him. But the idea of the _power_ they wielded over him made his knees weak. He _wanted_ their permission. He wasn't sure if he could marry Draco without it. To be part of a home was all he had ever dreamed of, to rest beneath his father's hand, in his mother's lap, and feel the security and comfort of hard work. To labor for them just for the glory of standing by his father's side.

He was getting ahead of himself. He wasn't joining their house. He was joining the Malfoys, and though that idea was indeed daunting, it did not fill him with the nervous euphoria that imagining being with the Potters did.

"Dyre?" he heard softly.

He looked up. Lily Potter was standing at the door, his father and Remus and Sirius behind her a ways, all looking at him in blatant concern.

"Are you ok?" his mother asked in that same soft voice reserved only for women with children.

It grudged up a small smile that almost met his eye. He opened his mouth to answer and realized that the word on the tip of his tongue was not "my lady" but "mother" and had to shut it again. Irritated with himself, he gave a small grunt, trying to keep his emotions under control.

"Yes," he said simply without honorific.

He started to ask if he could come in and changed his mind. He would feel trapped in a room, and he did not want to appear uncertain or weakened.

"Might I borrow you a minute?" he asked a tad too quickly, hardly even planning his words.

"Of course," she said, stepping out of the room.

Dyre looked up. "All of you?"

The Marauders shared a startled, worried look and got up off the couches. Dyre realized quickly that having all five of them in the hall would be too much, not to mention it was rude and improper to discuss this in the middle of a hall. He ran a hand through his hair, rubbing the cusp of the scar that escaped the patch on his forehead.

"I apologize. May we walk as well?"

He got some confused and wary nods. He had no idea where he was going as he led them around the castle. He was making a terrible job of this, not to mention having them at his back was making him even more riled.

It was silent, no one knowing what to say. Dyre knew he was being uncharacteristic but quite frankly didn't know any way of easing the situation. He was much too nervous to start idle chatter, even if that was a habit of his to begin with, which it wasn't.

He needed to go outside. But short of taking them to a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, he really didn't see the purpose in dragging them all outside the castle.

Damn it all, he decided. He made a turn down the corridor, his pace a tad brisk. He felt the others following him and thanked the gods that they were patient enough to allow his odd behavior.

"Uh, where are we going, Dyre?" Sirius asked nervously.

"I am more comfortable in the forest," he answered honestly. "If it is not a bother to you, I am taking us there."

He was worrying them and cursed himself anew, but he knew no words to relieve them. Or himself. However, when they reached the edge of the forest beside the gamekeeper's hut, he could already feel the tension in his back loosen. Loki and Levi, sensing his approach, darted through the trees to meet him, but he warned them off with a firm command. Though their presence might be a comfort to him, he did not need to make his family feel anymore uncomfortable than they already were.

Loki's ears drooped comically at the edge of the forest, but it followed its sibling back into the woods, disappearing in a shadow.

"Those were your…" Sirius trailed off. "Dogs?" he offered hesitantly.

He nodded, pleased to fill the silence between the crack of twigs and dead leaves. "Hellhounds."

"Oh. Cool."

Dyre spared him an odd glance then turned away. The man was married to a werewolf. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised in his tastes. He approached the clearing he wanted. Bone-bare poplars stretching tall to all sides of them in shades of grey and white, leaves thick.

He contemplated the trees before asking, "Would you like to meet them?"

He studied them for signs of fear, and though Lily shared a look with James and Remus, it was not hostile or scared.

"Sure," Sirius answered.

There were no thick shadows in the forest, almost everything a uniform shade of between-light made from the thick canopy, so he had to call them the human way. He pressed his fingers between his teeth and with a bit of magic, raised the octave of his whistle past human range. The two were waiting, barely out of sight. Loki leapt into the clearing enthusiastically, darting to Dyre like an over-eager pup. It knew enough not to jump on him though, circling him with its nose and one triangular tongue lolling over sharp teeth. Dyre allowed its muzzle to butt his hand, its tail swishing madly like a serpent.

Levi walked in, its shoulder blades pronounced in its gait. It sat a farther distance away, statuesque, watching Dyre solemnly. Much more regal than its young sibling.

"This is Loki," he said.

Loki's tongue touched its eye, cleaning the orb like a lizard.

"He's friendly for a demon," Remus remarked.

Dyre nodded. "It was summoned too young so it picked up the mannerisms of a common hound. Levi is older," he said gesturing to the creature that remained at the edge of the clearing, watching them.

Its eyes flicked to Remus then back to Dyre. Dyre shook his head.

"You can understand them," James said in awe.

"When they choose to communicate."

"And they do what you say?" Remus asked more apprehensively.

Dyre did not mesh words. "When they choose to. They obey certain edicts, and in return, I treat them with respect and allow them to exist on this plane. They have more intelligence than the common imp, but they remain creature and have the mentality of beasts. They will honor a pact."

"And you don't fear that they will turn on you?" he said incredulously.

Dyre gave him a hard stare. He knelt beside Levi and asked him to open his mouth. He placed his hand between the sharp incisors and the tough, cat-like tongues. The teeth pricked him rather deeply, and he allowed the tongues to lap at the wounds. He patted its side.

"Betrayal is not in their nature. More, they do not even understand the concept of it."

"You give them blood to make them obey?" Lily said.

Dyre shook his head and sighed. Creatures were so much easier to deal with than humans.

"It is hungry, and I have asked them not to feed off the centaurs. I give it blood because I am responsible for them. They are not bound to me in this regard. I am bound to them."

He removed his hand from its mouth and waited for it to finish licking the excess blood.

"Can I try?"

Dyre startled at Lily's offer. Only Yrsa had ever offered to feed them. He was finding himself caring more and more fond this woman's strange compassion and smiled at her.

"If you want. Levi," he called.

The beast sauntered over. He gestured Lily to kneel beside him, and she did so looking nervous and excited. He took her hand, rubbing his fingers over the pale skin of her palm. Levi sat again before them, its tail curling to the front like a cat.

"Would you mind taking from Mrs. Potter?" he asked the hound.

The beast's goat eyes contracted, and the tail flicked.

Dyre turned to Lily. "It wants to know what you wish in return."

She blinked. "Oh, um, can you just tell him, it, I just want to?"

Dyre's eye sparkled in hidden mirth. "You can speak to it. It understands the tongue of man."

"Oh," she floundered.

Dyre gave a small chuckle. "Just say it is in payment for allowing it to reside in the forest."

Levi dipped its head to their level, the neck extending obscurely, and opened its mouth. Lily suddenly looked hesitant, not that Dyre could really blame her.

"It is no different than an ordinary pinprick. It will take only a little. Beware that the tongues are rough and may skin you if you squirm."

Lily nodded resolutely and gingerly rested her hand in Levi's mouth. Under Dyre's instruction, it kept its jaw open, allowing them to watch the way its tongues padded gently over the slight abrasions. Lily winced for a second, but it was no worse than a scrape. She watched fascinated.

Eventually, Levi stood and stepped back, keeping his mouth loose and in contact so that it could slip away without injuring her.

"Thanks," she said, noticing the consideration, then blushed when she realized she had just thanked a daemon.

Dyre took her hand and patted the now clotted entryways with a handkerchief.

"That was very well done," he praised, and Lily smiled.

The gentle expression remained on his face after he had attended her hand and helped her up. Loki butted her side. Lily hesitantly rested her bandaged hand on its head, fingers sifting through the fine fur.

"No, she's my mother," Dyre said abruptly. "I came from her." He shook his head. "Humans come from two humans, a male and a female." He paused, a lost expression coming over his face. "Can't you smell it?"

Levi pushed his nose into Lily's navel.

"I am sorry," he said to Lily, who looked affably startled. "They are curious creatures, and it does not understand."

"It's not problem," she said. "He's actually rather cute. You know, once you get over the hell part of it."

Dyre struggled with a smirk. "I am pleased that you like them."

He sent them off, watching as Loki tried to snap at Levi's tail when they left.

"Did you bring us here to meet them?" James asked, watching them as well.

Dyre shuffled his feet. "No."

"It's ok," Lily said kindly. "What did you want to talk about?"

Dyre hesitated, but he knew he would never be more relaxed than this, and he cared too much for the situation to brush it off any longer.

"I would like your permission to marry Draco."

o.O.o

Silence serenaded the announcement, and the only reason Dyre was able to weather it was because it was expected. It was difficult, but he waited, just as he had waited for Draco. The first question they asked was not the one he was expected.

"Draco asked you to marry him?" Sirius said in a slow, confused voice.

Dyre cocked his head, wondering why that would be important, but he supposed they never would have assumed that he would ask first.

"No, I asked him."

They looked lost and worried. It was silly that the fear of rejection was slowly leaking from him, though he knew the discussion was only just beginning and he had convinced them of nothing. While they thought, he slipped the dirk from its leather sheath, noting how the material didn't even sigh.

He stared at the handle, the inlay simplistic and strong. The blade pointed down the length of his arm, reaching only halfway to his elbow. He thought about giving it to his father for safekeeping until the tournament was over, but that would raise questions that he couldn't answer.

"Dyre," his mother said in a strained, confused tone. "I… I don't understand. How could… Why did you ask him that?"

Dyre took time phrasing his answer. "Because I want to be with no other."

"But, Dyre, you're…"

He sighed and sheathed the dagger, feeling like he was walking on eggshells. "The Norns speak in riddles. Do not take what they say to heart."

Lily gave him a watery look that said she didn't believe him. The men wouldn't look at him at all though.

"They said, they said you were going to, going to die."

"Do not take it to heart," he said again, more firmly. He grew frustrated when she couldn't look at him and ran a hand through his hair. "Why do I speak if no one will listen?" He shut his eyes, his body making a dismissive motion. "If you have mastered any faith in me in these past months, if I have not betrayed your confidence in some form, believe in me. I will not die."

"It's not a matter of belief," James said, tears running past his glasses.

"Would I lie?" Dyre interrupted. "Have I ever lied? Did I not tell you I would survive?"

"The Norns were protecting you-" Sirius started.

"The Norns can neither give nor take life. They can only read the weave. Believe in me," he said again. "That's all you have to do. Believe in me and I'll live."

"It's not that simple, Dyre," Remus said sadly, shaking his shaggy head.

"Look at me!"

The shout brought up all their heads. His glare was furious and desperate.

"Do you honestly think me no more than a curse?"

James started. "People can't-"

"I can," the boy said sternly. He stared at them a moment longer before finally turning away. "I did not come here for this. I came because of Draco. If you think I'm dying, I will respect your wishes."

He started to walk away before Lily shouted at his back.

"What does that mean?"

He turned around. "I will tell him that we cannot wed."

Lily drew away. "No. No! We don't want you not to marry him! It's just…"

"You believe I'm dying," he finished solemnly.

His face mellowed somewhat at the broken-hearted look on Lily's face. He took a step forward and surprised them all by embracing her.

"I will not blame you," he said gently while she remained frozen. "I will not lay blame for something that is in your nature."

"Dyre," she breathed, voice swollen.

He drew away but kept her at arm's reach. "If you cannot believe in me, I will prove myself. One day, I will be your son."

"You already are my son."

He shook his head. "Not now. Maybe some day in the future. I believe in you, and that is all that matters."


	23. Red Sky at Morning

AN: Finally! I got this updated. I didn't want to send an author's note instead of a chapter because I hate when other authors do that. Long story short, several things happened. I'm the president of a club and had to organize an anime convention trek for some twenty-odd students to Atlanta (nightmare), I changed computers (also a nightmare but on a lesser scale), and I applied for study abroad at my college (about equal nightmare to the anime con trip).

Suffice to say, I have been annoyingly busy this year and had no time to edit my work. I am deeply frustrated with this story and where it's going. Now, I'm trying to minimize the useless angst, quite the endeavor in most fanfics. Oh, right.

**warning! male/male sex!**

Yes, I finally did it. Please enjoy this chapter. I'm going through massive editing so I don't know when the next chapter will be out. I seriously doubt it will take as long as this one did, for which I apologize.

Onwards!

_I want_

_to leap past gestures_

_we know, to savor cin-_

_namon, eat crushed thyme_

_and fall, locked, with you_

_through that kingdom_

_of exhaustion, wet_

_breathing nerve-and-sinew_

_wisdom, burning the gods._

~ "Hubris" by Robert Peters

Draco lied against Dyre's chest, his arms wrapped around his torso. His parents said no too. Dyre could see it on his face - the shame, anger and hurt added to a downcast look as if he expected Dyre to be angry with him.

Dyre had taken his face in his hands and kissed him, something smooth to equate the pounding pressed against the palm on his chest. They were in Dyre's mostly unused room, lying atop the covers though it was already midnight. Dyre ran his fingers through Draco's hair, marveling at how close they were and how pleasant it was simply to be there together.

"We could elope," Draco said suddenly, softly.

Dyre looked down at the top of his head. "That… is not what I want," he said carefully, unused to voicing such things.

Draco looked up at him, then nestling closer.

"I'm scared," he whispered so finely Dyre almost didn't hear.

He pressed his fingers into his scalp. "I know."

"That's it," Draco said. "You just know."

Dyre drew his fingers out of his hair.

"Don't-" Draco started. "No, please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get angry."

Dyre gave him an odd look. "You are entitled to your emotions, Draco."

"How can you be so- Aren't you affected? Don't you want to scream or hurl something against the wall or, or, I don't know, something?"

Dyre stared at the wall as if Draco had actually thrown something, a strange look on his face, before he turned back to him.

"What will happen will happen."

"But you're not going to die?" the blond said almost before he finished.

Dyre's lips parted for a moment, his brow crinkled. He touched the corner of Draco's eye lightly, hating the glossy shimmer.

"I promise I will return to you."

"R-return," he repeated, shaking his head. "What does that mean?"

He grabbed Draco's arms, staring at him fiercely. "This will not be easy. I will not die in the manner that you speak, but I might have to leave for a time."

"Leave? Leave where? Go where?"

He brushed back his hair. "Draco, trust me. Everything will be alright. This will not last eternity. I will not die."

Draco continued to stare at him, lost, and Dyre pressed their foreheads together. "No one else needs to believe me besides you. I can prove myself to all of them, but please," he begged unabashedly. "Be scared. Be angry. It's fine. It's fine, Draco."

Draco pushed him back into the mattress, grabbing the front of his doublet and straddling him. Their foreheads knocked awkwardly, but they both ignored the smart.

"I… I need- Merlin, so stupid," he chided himself.

"You know I will give you whatever you want."

"Do you even know what you're saying?" Draco asked breathlessly. "Do you even know how two men have sex?"

Dyre's silence gave him an answer. Draco drew away, sitting at the edge of the bed.

"You don't want to rush."

Dyre remained still beside him. Slowly, he reached over and rested his fingers against Draco's back. The touch was light, caressing him like he might a bird. There was flesh beneath his fingers, and he startled when he realized the obvious fact that Draco had a body, a human body like all other men. But it was Draco, and when he touched him, it was because he _wanted_ to.

"Tonight or ten years from now," he said softly. "I will never rush the way I touch you."

Draco made a straggled sound. "You… you are too damn good. How do you even come up with shite like that?"

Dyre frowned, his fingers stilling. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I think that's part of the problem," Draco grumbled. He turned to look at him from beneath his palm. "You are amazingly sweet for a cursed assassin."

Dyre gave him a startled look before he started laughing. "And you are very considerate for an arrogant prince."

Draco made an expression as if trying to decide whether or not to be affronted. Dyre smiled, leaning up further. His hands went to his face, forcing his chin up slightly.

"I will marry you, Draco Malfoy, and we will live together. You won't be alone."

Draco choked. "I won't forgive you if you're lying."

Dyre nodded in understanding.

Draco licked his lips. "Do you really not know how men have sex with each other?"

Dyre's smile was not embarrassed. Calloused fingers moved over Draco's face.

"Would you like to teach me?"

Draco gaped at him for a moment. Hesitantly, he moved to straddle Dyre's waist again. The northman sunk further into the folded sheets, allowing Draco to tower over him. Draco touched the collar holding his doublet together and looked into his uncovered eye.

The green was burning, dark with promise. Its intensity caught his breath. He swallowed, and his fingers fumbled at the clasp.

"Fuck," he cursed, lying out across him. "I'm nervous now."

Dyre's arms rested lightly on his hips. "Do you hear my heart?"

"Yes," the boy answered softly.

"How does it sound?"

Draco listened the wet thump, feeling the motions of his lungs in slow work.

"Nice," he said at length.

"Do not think that anything you might do won't be beautiful to me. I trust you."

"What if I do something that you don't like?" he said quickly, leaning up to look at him.

"Draco," he said with a tone that told him he thought the blond was being silly. "You have been nothing but considerate to me since we met. It is not in your nature to want to harm me."

"Accidents happen," he argued stubbornly.

"What do you want, Draco? What do you think is best right now?"

Draco gave an irritated grunt. "What do you want?" he threw back.

Dyre was silent a moment, thinking, and Draco tried to wait patiently.

"I want to feel you. I want to know what faces you'll make while you're being pleasured, and I want you to look at me like I'm the only one who will see such things."

Draco moaned, fisting his doublet. Who the hell knew dirty talk could be so sweet? He wet his mouth.

"I think I can do that."

"You will have to tell me how," Dyre reminded him.

Draco's groin tightened, and he stifled the urge to rub against him.

"You need to take off my pants," he said breathlessly.

His hands moved and he spoke, "Lean up."

Draco obeyed, shutting his eyes. He went to all fours atop him, breathing heavily and slightly embarrassed. Dyre worked at the clasp of his belt, hands steady. Draco clenched his abdomen, followed quickly by his jaw and fingers. Dyre had leaned up to tug them down, and it allowed their chests to come in contact. Draco expelled his breath violently, feeling unsoundly sensitive. He felt Dyre smile into his hair, taking a moment merely to press together innocently.

He lied back down, and Draco kicked off his trousers, joining him, though now his unclothed erection rubbed against Dyre's garments.

"Do you know how to stretch?"

He didn't need to look to feel Dyre's confusion. He grabbed the boy's shoulders and moved up a little.

"Put your finger in behind me. Slowly," he added. "Otherwise it will hurt."

Dyre did as commanded, adding kisses to his neck. Draco reached to the bedside where he kept his wand and muttered a spell that coated Dyre's fingers in oil. Dyre paused for a second then continued. He circled the entrance, waiting for the jumps and involuntary clenches to fade and for Draco to make a low, heady groan. He pushed in without resistance, feeling Draco's muscles relax familiarly with the presence.

The angle was awkward, and he had to sit them up slightly. Draco rose to his knees, hands on the headboard, face meshed with conflicting sensations. Dyre thrust in and out of his own resolve, watching him.

"O… ok. N-now another."

It was tight this time and slightly difficult. Dyre didn't try to force it, waiting after a contraction to press forward. Draco hummed, sweat gathering on his forehead. He kept his eyes closed so he didn't have to watch Dyre watching him.

"Now… now you have to… have to stretch it."

"May I flip us?" he asked politely.

Draco nodded enthusiastically, gripping his shoulder. He made the motion quick. Draco's legs spread accommodatingly, falling to either side of him. He threw his head back, exposing the long line of his pale throat. Reading his need, he made the thrusts harder, turning and twisting his fingers as he scissored. Draco rutted against him, kicking his heels for more momentum and slipping on the sheets. He lifted his hips. Dyre's other hand smoothed up his sides, exposing his chest. His fingers seemed fascinated with the spasms in his muscles. He didn't even seem to think that Draco might want that attention on his cock.

"Another," he ordered/begged in a tight, breathless voice.

Dyre pushed in a third finger, spreading the oil generously. Draco's legs clamped around him and turned them. The blond fumbled with the laces of the doublet, abandoned them half undone and reached for his trousers. Dyre allowed himself to be undressed, aiding only in lifting his hips when Draco demanded they be tugged down. He took his erection in hand, coating his hand in the lucrative oil seeping out his passage.

Dyre's breath hissed, and he twitched, hand grasping Draco at the bend in his knee. The blond leaned up, guiding the erection behind him.

"Ready?" he said shakily.

Dyre scooted down a little further in response, allowing him more room to sit. Draco gave a beautiful, breathless smile and eased himself over the head. Dyre swallowed convulsively, his muscles tensing. He thrust upward, and Draco rode the movement, too soon to have all of his cock in him. Hands scattered around them. They panted. Draco remained seated, adjusting to the feel. Dyre shook his head.

"I need more. Would it…" he trailed in Icelandic and had to shake his head, "Hurt? You?"

After a moment, Draco shook his head. Dyre, in a rare moment of boldness, sat up quickly. He pushed Draco backward on the mattress, and the slight yelp turned into a crass scream. Muscles quivered around him, chests heaving. Dyre gave a small thrust, and Draco's own erection jumped. He garbled out the boy's name, eyes closed and moaning wantonly.

It did hurt, but he wasn't going to tell him. It felt good too. He'd been celibate since before the Durmstrang ship landed. While that meant that his muscles were unused and un-stretched, it meant also that the feeling of having a body between his legs was like bliss. And that it was Dyre… He tried to grab the boy's hips but shuddered, out of practice and lacking the strength. He grabbed his cock instead. The touch made him release a wasted groan.

Dyre gave a grunt, but it still wasn't enough. Gently, fingers twitching, he coaxed Draco onto his side. The boy followed, yearning for more friction. Careful to remain sheathed, he drew the boy's leg over his shoulder. Draco eyes jerked to him in surprise, but he braced himself for those last few centimeters, tilting his hips.

Dyre rolled forward on his knees and sighed.

"I'm in you," Dyre whispered, in awe.

"I feel it," he panted in return.

The pain was a wicked throb. He didn't think anyone had ever been this deep before. He didn't know anyone who wanted to be, and never assumed that it was pleasant. It was impossible for Dyre to hit his prostate at this length and angle but the feeling itself, the oh-my-god, filled-to-the-brim wonder of lying together like this made him want to cry. He could feel himself gaping, his muscles working and failing to make sense of it. He couldn't move.

"Are you alright?" Dyre asked, somehow controlling the urge to roll into him.

He spoke and the sound didn't come up. "M-hmm," he said, after a second try. He rested his cheek on the comforter, awash in the shivers and twitches his body was making. His hand fisted, fingers scattering over his erection. "I'm fine," he whispered. "I'm fine." Though the pain jumped like a rubber ball inside him.

Dyre rolled his hips, delivering a jab that made Draco shudder. The brunet turned his face, kissing the milky inside of the exposed thigh on his shoulder. Draco suddenly felt something hot coil in him, like a heated, metallic snake in his groin.

"What is that?" he said, voice cracking.

"Minn... my magick," Dyre said, adding a slow roll.

Draco bit off what he was going to say when it climbed upward to his spine in a strange tingle, and he even released his prick in shock. The coiling pooled in places and tightened in others, mixing in a strange whirlpool too difficult to describe. Pleasure struck at him like a hammer at an anvil. He jerked, crying out, only to pant, releasing a line of spit, a moment later.

"You are part of me," Dyre said, rolling his hips evenly now, making them bounce. A spike brought tears to Draco's eyes. "That part, my core."

"Your core?" Draco whimpered.

The magic entered him in an electric rush. Precum shot through the tip of his erection.

"I share magic, this deep," Dyre told him, his voice a shudder.

"Merlin," Draco muttered, burying his face in the covers.

He wouldn't be able to ride this much longer. He should have guessed that Dyre's endurance to pain would extend to pleasure as well. He knew enough of human anatomy to hit all the pleasure sensors with his magic, spacing strokes so it didn't drive him insane or make him pass out.

"Dyre," he tried to say. "I can't-"

Dyre came with a growl, and the magic flared to the point of pain. Draco cried out and climaxed after him. Dots ran on his vision, spots he hadn't seen since he had lost his virginity. He felt and heard Dyre pull out but was asleep before the sensation stopped.

o.O.o

Draco awoke to the feeling of Dyre cleaning the space between his thighs. The skin tingled, and he suspected Dyre had added a numbing mixture to the washcloth. (Thank all graces.) He had known the intrusion would have laid him in bed for a while, but the notable lack of pain was unbelievable. Even the throbbing was dulled.

"How are you feeling?" Dyre asked, clothed in nothing but his johns.

Draco smiled, not even bothering trying to move. "Sated."

Dyre gave him a soft smile.

"You're possessive," Draco noted absently, reaching to tug fondly at his hair.

Dyre paused and looked up at him.

"I am," he acknowledged.

Draco smirked, dropping his hand with an exhausted sigh. "I'm really popular. You might have to fight for me."

Dyre quirked his brow. "It is fortunate that I am a good warrior."

Draco felt the pride in his voice and felt like he had become a part of it. It was a new sensation, something he had never thought of before. Pride seemed to him a creature of solitude, making barriers and raising wars like a dragon with a pot of gold. Pride was not something that extended its reach beyond its wall. Except, it seemed, with Dyre, whose soft smolder might have stoked armies or a single, defiant heart.

He raised his arms, needing to touch him. Dyre obliged, setting aside the cloth and water, and Draco marveled at how he made that too seem like a touch of magic. Dyre climbed up to him, settled him in his lap. Draco could feel the ridges of the curse through his thin shirt and allowed his fingers to follow outside the lines instead of avoid them .Dyre didn't even flinch.

"You'll be here to fight them," he said, lying his head on his shoulder, his bottom beginning to burn warmly. He stroked his back, memorizing his jaw before touching at his strong face. "We're going to get married and run an empire and find an heir and grow old together."

"Yes," Dyre said with so much emotion that he hissed. He closed his gaze, resting his chin over Draco's head.

Draco nodded, and for some reason, it brought tears to his eyes. Of course, they wouldn't fall.

"I'll wait for you then. Wherever you are going, if I cannot follow, I will wait, and you'll come back to me." He leaned back. "You'd better come back to me," he warned. "I'll kill you. I swear on the name of my magic, I'll kill if you don't, Dyre."

The brightness in his eyes was burning, Dyre thought. As fiercely as liquid sun. It was true, he didn't have to pretend that Draco was a warrior. He conducted battles differently, with all the strength of violent and vengeful hellspawn. It's strength was laid bare in blue deserts, as entrancing and dangerous as glass.

If betrayed, this boy would search hell for him and kill him. Fierce and unforgiving as a harpy.

"I love you," Dyre said, staring into those fathomless acres, hopeless and homeless in the world.

He looked shocked that his threat had been met with such declaration, but there was no injured pride, as if he understood exactly how he stood in Dyre's eyes. Such confidence, my starling.

"I love you too, Dyre." He touched his hand, finding the fear equal to the bliss in his statement.

o.O.o

Dumbledore's office was already filled when they took the seats at the couch. No one save Dumbledore looked particularly happy, and even the old man looked slightly strained, his robes lacking any sort of flourish. He was sitting in a common kitchen chair across the coffee table with nothing to hide the motions of his hands or lean over.

"How are you feeling, Dyre?" he asked.

Dyre's gaze stayed on the wizard as he surreptitiously rubbed his thumb over Draco's hand. "Quite well, Headmaster, though you could have asked me that without calling a meeting," he said kindly.

The old man smiled. "I still enjoy some pleasantries, my boy."

Rather than letting it upset him (like it would normally), he inclined his head. "Then, how are you feeling, Headmaster? Have you finished preparing for the third task?"

"Enough," Severus snapped. His glare bored into Dyre. "Do you even realize the gravity of your situation?"

Dumbledore raised his hand to cover his mouth. "I'm actually feeling quite my age recently," he said honestly. He gave another tired smile. "I appreciate that you would ask."

"You're welcome, sir," Dyre said. He turned to Severus. "Yes."

"Yes?" the man snapped. "Yes what?"

"Yes, I likely know much more than you how serious the circumstances have become."

"Well, by all means share," the man said through gritted teeth.

Dyre sighed. He gave a glance to Draco, who wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for but gave his hand a squeeze anyway.

"I cannot."

Severus immediately began yelling. Dyre bore it until Dumbledore and Lily could calm him, which only took as much time as Severus took to realize that Dyre was unfazed.

"You arrogant…"

"Severus," Draco cut off. He met his godfather's eyes.

Severus sniffed but calmed. Dyre suffered the hostility by staring at a space on the floor, but Draco didn't think he'd really heard most of what Severus had said.

"Do you have a plan?" Remus asked when no one else took the burden.

Dyre blinked and looked up. "Plan?" His lip curled in disgust, and he looked away again, shutting his eyes.

"I have asked you not to believe the Norns. I know now that this is too difficult, but I say it again." He looked up defiantly. "They twist their riddles. Even their secrets have secrets, and whatever we divine of them is only half an understanding of the gods. That's why we leave weaving to All-Mothers," he added a tad spitefully. He shut his eyes. "Whatever I plan now, it cannot go against what they have weaved."

"Then you will die," Sirius choked.

"Dyre," Albus said. He soothed his voice, but it remained sad and weary. "It's not worth your life."

Unexpectedly, Dyre smiled. "Thank you, but you seemed to have yet again conveniently disregarded half of what I have said." His tone broached amusement, making it sound less like a reprimand and more like a bitter joke. "The fact remains, that you think of me as a child and my word is untrustworthy."

No one spoke, and Draco squeezed his hand.

"I will met my Fate," Dyre said at last.

"No," Lily whispered. She leaned even further forward, almost falling off the seat, and stared at Dyre with bright fern-gully eyes. "No, you'll do no such thing. You are going to leave here. Go someplace where it's safe."

"Where would you have me go? The stretch of Volde-" He cut off, closing his eyes.

The room went quiet again, watching him. Some in confusion and other in much more, painful knowledge.

"You can't say his name anymore, can you?" Dumbledore said.

He ignored him. "His magic spans the continent."

She licked her lips. "Then leave the continent. Go to the Tower," she said. "It will be safe there. We'll find some way to null the contract."

Dyre was already shaking his head. "I can't go there."

"If this is about your being a warrior," James said, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder, "you're the best warrior I've ever seen."

"No," he said firmly, cutting him off with a raised hand. "I mean I can no longer enter the Tower."

"Wha-" he floundered. Then as if on cue, they looked to Draco.

The blond tightened the grip on their hands and raised his chin defiantly.

"What have you done?" Lucius whispered, his wife staring pale.

"What you all are incapable of doing," Draco said proudly. "I believe in him."

"My god, Draco. This is foolishness," Severus said, breathless.

"I love him," Draco said, glaring back unashamed.

"Love isn't always enough," Narcissa said gently. Her eyes buried themselves into his, like knifes.

Draco shuddered. "But sometimes it is. I love him," he said, facing her. "I'm not leaving him alone."

"You are our son!" Lucius shouted, losing his decorum. He took a step forward as if to wrench Draco away. Dyre twitched but did not move. "Would you have us lose both our sons?"

Draco's resolve almost broke, but he bore through it, not looking away. "Father, this is right. It's all I can do. Would you truly order me away?" he asked. "I would not do it," he said in outright disobedience.

"Draco-" he started angrily.

"I will not," he snapped, rage following the grief on his face as he faced his father. "You did not raise me to fear the future. It is mine! It is what I make of it! And I chose Dyre."

Lucius' gaze flickered to him then back to his son, falling in vengeance to the simple fears of a father.

"If the boy dies, you will regret this."

Draco gave a small, bitter smile. "If he dies, there is nothing I will not regret. No matter what I do."

Silence fell once more, and Lucius backed away. Narcissa sighed shakily.

"I am proud of you, Draco. For all that it pains me."

He nodded without words.

"Madness," Severus whispered, hanging his head in his hands so his oily hair fell to either side of his face, hiding his expression.

"Perhaps once I could have run," Dyre said, thinking of the unweaved roads. "But he would follow now. Even if I kill myself-"

"Say that again," Draco said, crushing his hand. "And I'll strike you."

Dyre frowned but nodded. "I cannot run from this. This is the meaning of Prophecy."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Some liken prophecy to disease. It takes hold of something inside you and forces you to events."

"It is more complicated than that," Dyre said. "They have wills. They _want_ things. Their greatest desire is irony."

"Irony?" Sirius repeated, confusion.

Dyre summoned two soldiers from Dumbledore's chess set. "They speak of twos. Not opposites so much as twins, as different as they are the same."

"This is you and Voldemort," James said, watching the figures.

"You are nothing like him," Sirius argued.

Dyre stared at him. Sirius shivered. Gently, Dyre caressed the dark piece, a slight weight in his hand.

"I was offered to him because we are similar. Though I do not know how." He set the pawn down next to its brother. "He craves power, and he used me as a catalyst. I was to be a vassal, a pawn he could use as he saw fit. I was to be his mirror. A reflection of ambitions."

He knocked the white pawn down. "Perhaps he knew that we would both die and that was the sacrifice he made. Perhaps he didn't. How that night works in our Fate, I still do not know. He was barred from the world, and I was given time. None of this was an accident." He pushed the black soldier down as well. "Not by Fate. I do not believe such a thing as my life is so simple."

"What," Lily whispered, her head in her hands, "About any any of this, has been simple?"

"The world feeds a monster," Dyre said. "The world bears a hero. Hero defeats monster, but in doing so forsakes his life." He closed his eyes, a frown etched on his face. When he opened them, they blazed with amazing strength on his mother. "Why not let us both die that night? Why not let a child's purity vanquish an evil? It is _never_ that simple."

"Why did it have to be you?" James cried, his tears in his throat rather than his eyes. "Why you when it could have been anybody?" he yelled.

"Because I chose to bear it."

James stared at him. Dyre's face revealed nothing but determination, without fear, without doubt or qualm. Though that too had to be some sort of mask.

"I chose right now," he said when Lily and Sirius opened their mouths. "I was chosen for this task. It doesn't matter if it was unfair to ask of me. Tragedy comes to everyone. No one asks for it. Still, they must chose to bear it. That's all we can do."

_Do you think I would ask you to bear this_, his eyes seemed to say. _Do you think I would ask this of Draco, of you, of her, of anyone who loves me? Didn't I tell you to abandon me?_

His face softened. "So easy, you could have never known me. If I had stayed in Iceland," he said, looking away to the north. He could almost feel the burn of its air, white in his breath. "All the times I thought of fleeing into the forest while Karkaroff's eye was no longer on me. How would the weave have made us then? Strangers on opposite sides of a war."

"At least we wouldn't know," Sirius said.

"Yes, you wouldn't know. You wouldn't know it was your son who bled you. What would you care if a stranger with a familiar face murdered your comrades? You would have your doubts, but what would it matter while I stood at the Dark Lord's side?"

Sirius flinched and looked away.

Leopold fluttered into the room and landed on his shoulder. It chirped and flew to sit on the perch beside Dumbledore's phoenix, which regarded it with bewildered curiosity.

"About the prophecy," Dumbledore said, changing tacts. "What can you tell us of this trickster?

He shook his head. "It is an old tale. The god Loki felled the god of beauty Baldar with a can of mistletoe, the only thing in the world that refused to love him. The tale involves donning guises, but outside the realm of our lore..." He held out his hands. "I cannot tell you."

"What, you can't divine him?" Severus said scathingly.

Dyre was silent a moment, frowning before he clicked his fingers. "Mordant. I've been trying to find that word the moment I met you. You are mordant."

Dumbledore chuckled. "He is quite," he said, ignoring the master's glower. "Is there nothing else you can tell us?"

"I've thought of it." He gave the headmaster a coy look. "As you have as well. I assume we came to the same conclusion."

Dumbledore leaned back, some of the weariness draining from his face for the first of the evening. "I believe so."

"And of course, you must confer among yourselves rather then give such fickle information to us lowly servants," Severus quipped, folding his arms.

"I do so cherish him," Albus informed Dyre pithily. Severus hit the table.

"I'm rather surprised you haven't come to the same conclusion, Master Potions-Maker," Dyre told him.

Severus blinked, but it only took him a moment. "Polyjuice? Someone's been under polyjuice."

Dyre nodded. "That's the conclusion I came to, but it might still be wrong. Mistletoe is an ingredient, but it mentions nothing of the love in the tale. But that might not even be important." He shook his head in exasperation and stood.

"Where are you going?" James and Sirius demanded at the same time.

"The inner workings of the school and its wards are not my domain." He reached for Draco's hand. "I promised Draco dinner."

Draco gave a preening smile, no shadow of the discussion falling over his face. Dyre loved him a little more.

Severus frowned fiercely at the display, turning his back.

"You aren't leaving the grounds, are you?" Lily asked.

Dyre shook his head. "I have an arrangement with the house elves to use the kitchen."

"However did you manage?" Dumbledore asked. "The head elf is always adamant about keeping me out of the stores."

He gave a secretive smile. "A servant recognizes a fellow servant."

He left Draco by the door to turn to Lily. He bent down and pecked her cheek.

"You can survive this madness," he whispered in her ear. "You are forever loved, Lily."

He returned to Draco's side, and they left their startled audience behind.


	24. The End of a Dream

Warning: Some gore and cussing

* * *

_The last light has gone out of the world, except_

_This moonlight lying on the grass like frost_

_Beyond the brink of the tall elm's shadow._

~ _Liberty_ by Edward Thomas

The stands roared with chatter and cheers. The sky hosted the beginning of spring, bright with the morning sun and a soft breeze that cherished more than it whipped. But despite the fair weather, Dyre could feel the ground rolling with discontent. The Forest was exceptionally foul these past few days. Bane had taken the herd into the hills. Centaurs did not believe in luck, but Morgan rested his hand on his shoulder, and Dyre understood the words that did not pass between them.

Now, the maze pressed before them, daunting and mysterious, and everyone was rushed with excitement. Everyone save the nine at his back, eying him with varying degrees of anxiety. Dyre took a deep breath, smelling the recently churned soil of the mutilated quidditch pitch and the metallic tinge of repressed magic.

He approached Draco and not caring who was watching, kissed his cheek, resting his hand along the other side of his jaw.

"Be safe," he told him.

Draco gave a snort that was much too strained. He ignored chasteness and took his mouth. Dyre allowed him to rake his hand through his hair, closing his eyes in one of those rare moments of peace that only Draco could coax from him. Draco pulled away, and for a moment, they felt the inch between them.

"You be safe," Draco said, backing away. He allowed himself to be comforted by the warmth of the glass wyvern at the back of his neck.

Dyre resisted the urge to embrace him. He wasn't sure he'd let go. He looked at them all, making sure to encompass every single one of their gazes, resting a tad longer on Lily.

One last time.

"Wait for me," he said of his last command.

Confused stares met him, and with one last meaningful glance at Draco, he approached the maze. Dumbledore was called to begin the task, and the other two competitors lined up beside him. He didn't care about winning. He didn't care about what trap had been lain for him, what plan had been unrolling for fifteen years some unfathomable distance. He thought only of his return. There was no dream of a future, nothing beyond a moment at the story's end. He held onto their expectations of him, their refusal to take the easy way out and release him.

Love and despair, a coat of colors so often weaved in tandem.

A spell _bang_ed and Dyre entered the maze.

o.O.o

Dark loomed around him. He could hear the shuffling of other creatures through the dense foliage, but none came to accost him. His dirk remained in his belt. He met a dead end and turned around, not even bothering to keep track of where he was or where he was going.

Dumbledore had given him a wand. The petition from the start of the tournament had finally made it through and was approved, but he did not draw it. It was rowan with dragon heartstring. It was a good wand, and he felt only marginally guilty about dropping it in Sirius' pocket earlier.

The path he was walking suddenly shivered and moved. He made the last step and watched it vanish behind him in a whirl of leaves and twigs. He stared at it a bit, wondering if he should let himself be caught in the next one, if perhaps he should just sit down and wait, but he didn't. As much as he wanted to defy his Fate, it was not in his nature to abandon a battle, and he had no desire to change because of his Fate anymore than he had of changing to obey it.

The sound of dueling caught his ears, but it was a ways off and behind a green wall. With a whistle, he called Loki and Levi. They appeared from the shadows. He asked them to watch over Delacour and Diggory. Loki licked his hand and faded, Levi behind him.

He started singing a short nursery rhyme beneath his breath. He had met nothing and no one. He knew enough that he was now deep into the maze and should have run across something by now.

"Merrily, merrily, life is but a dream," he murmured.

Loki howled. Something to his left gave a high-pitched scream and ran. The spit dried in his mouth, but he thought that was more of a reaction to the hellhound's cry than to his own emotion.

The path he was about to take suddenly closed over, and he had to hurriedly snatch his foot away.

"Life is but a dream."

Finally, he caught sight of creature. A sphinx sat at the end of a pathway, a dome of intersecting vines shielding most of the light but less so than the rest of the maze. She watched him, her tail flicking back and forth over her front paws. As Dyre approached, she bent nonchalantly and licked her leg, but when he stepped at the threshold of the clearing, her head twitched, and she set the limb down, face sharp and beautiful with Egyptian bronze.

"Do you seek passage?" she asked, an amused purr in the background as her tail flicked back and forth.

The way behind her was dark, looking no more entreating than the rest of the maze. Dyre stayed where he was and reviewed her. She waited patiently for his answer, her smirk widening the longer he took.

"Yes."

She smiled and stretched, claws kneading the grass as she stuck her rear in the air, bosom brushing the grass.

"You must answer my riddle to pass. One answer. You can walk away if you choose. If you answer wrong, I will attack you."

Straightforward. Absurdly straightforward for a cat. Dyre suspected she was lying about the walk away bit. But Dyre was a curious creature too.

"What is your riddle?"

She sat up.

"'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,

Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder;

'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,

Attends him at birth and awaits him at death,

In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,

But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir;

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,

With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned;

Without it the soldier and seaman may roam,

But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!

'Twill soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,

It will make him acutely and instantly hear.

Set in shade, let it rest like a delicate flower;

Ah! Breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour."

That was longer than he thought it would be, and he had to ask that it be repeated several times.

Finally, he smiled. "H."

She stepped aside.

"Watch for the hellhounds," he said with a bob of his head as he passed her.

She didn't respond, her eyes following him out.

The cup was glowing a soft silver-blue. The soft hum of magic surrounded it, lighting the area in a subtle fluorescent glow. He squatted on the grass and stared at it.

Was the sphinx the only thing that guarded it? True, maybe if the dragon and the knucker had given him a riddle, he would have survived the other tasks better, but this seemed entirely too easy.

The minutes ticked by and nothing happened. There was no glory in grabbing a cup off a pedestal, and he was thinking about finding one of the other champions so they could win the damn thing. But that would be a waste of time. He didn't think he was wrong in assuming that the beginning of the prophecy's end would happen today, and he didn't think he was wrong that it was connected to this tournament. But he was beginning to doubt that the creature from the ley lines would suddenly appear in the maze. What sense would it make for it to attack him as he was exiting? The perfect moment would have been before he reached the cup, when he was still alone.

This reeked of foul play, but he couldn't sit there forever, and the hope that one of the other champions would wander in was dwindling. He stood, eying the cup. The hum was constant, ignoring the chaotic emotions swirling about his head. With little option, he grabbed the cup and won the Triwizard's Tournament.

o.O.o

Lily bit her lip, wringing the handkerchief Lucius had given her. The old dragon hummed against her shoulders, dozing. James was pacing anxiously. The stands had dissolved into excited chatter, the projection from the maze showing Cedric battling a black annis. James wished simultaneously that it would and would not switch to Dyre. Though he wished to see him, the charm was set only to pick up adrenaline and fear.

Draco touched Lily's hand, stilling her wringing for a second. "He'll be fine," he said without looking at her, eyes on the watery projection.

She swallowed and interlocked their hands.

Cedric dodged another attack from the annis' long arms and fired back a spell around a hedge. A second projection flared, revealing Fleur combating one of those obscure crab-like monsters Hagrid had bred. Cedric finally incapacitated the annis and the screen dissolved. Fleur rolled the earth and knocked the skrewt over. She blasted its unprotected underbelly, though her robes caught fire in the process. She was casting a water spell when the scene dissolved as well.

"Looks like he's managed to avoid trouble so far," Severus mumbled behind them, eying the area where the projections were to appear.

"Something isn't right," Sirius added, agreeing with the tone in his voice.

"Just be thankful," Narcissa said curtly, her arms folded.

"Dyre is quick," Lucius added. "Perhaps he incapacitated the beasts before they noticed him."

"Maybe he hasn't experienced any adrenaline rushes or fear," Remus mused.

They were reasonable conclusions, but thirty minutes passed and no other screens appeared. Dumbledore approached the maze and ran a check over the spells. His brow crinkled and he flicked his wand. The protection rose with great distortions, as if fighting to dissolve. Faintly, they caught the image of two human-shaped creatures dueling. Dumbledore put out his hand, and the image cleared.

Cedric and Fleur were fighting. Distressed cries rose from the stadium.

"Were there any spells that would make them do that?" Remus asked.

Lily shook her head, but she looked unsure.

"No," Severus said.

Fleur released a Dark spell, noticeable only for the bright, overwhelming crackle like lightning that sped towards Diggory. He raised a shield but was still blasted back, colliding with the thick brush. He slumped slightly like he had lost consciousness, Still, his arm extended, the wand rolling like a whirlpool. Roots erupted from beneath Fleur's feet. She grappled with them, shooting spells. Her feet began to sink through the earth. Roots captured her wrists. She squirmed, snarling, tearing at them with her fingernails.

The twigs and gorse of the hedge wrapped slowly around Cedric. His wand arm sagged, and he allowed himself to be pulled backward, head lolling. Fleur had been pulled onto her back, the ground up to her knees and swimming over her chest. Her arms were tied down, and she gulped, terrified, as the dirt rose up to her neck, straining her neck to keep her mouth free.

"We need to get in there!" Sprout shouted, standing with her wand drawn.

There was a sudden howl, like a jaguar's hunting screech. Some of the students screamed, most covering their ears. Loki and Levi came up through the shadows, Loki's neck extended in the long echo of a hellhound's infamous scream. The shrubs trembled, and even in the stadium, they could feel the ashy power of its voice. The vines shrank back from the students, and the dogs tore at them with their teeth, pleasuring themselves in the short-lived squeals made by invisible flowers.

With unarmed grace, The dogs shrugged the bodies atop their long girth and faded through the shadows. The screen remained, swimming with empty green and black. Almost instantly, the hellhounds bounded through the entrance of the maze. Despite the rescue, several people still screamed, pointing their wands from the stands. Dumbledore shouted a brief disarming spell, rewarded by shrill yelps.

The teachers and the champions' families swarmed the beasts, the other professors working wards to hold back the crowd. Dumbledore was the first to reach them and floated them off the hounds' backs, performing charms only a moment before he was crowded.

"Imperius," he surmised. "Send them to the infirmary."

They were immediately carted away.

"Get the students to the castle," he continued to order.

Sirius, Remus, and Severus nodded and started herding the confused children back into the castle with the other professors. Victor and Hermione escaped, jogging to the clearing.

"What about Dyre?" Hermione asked.

"We need to get him out," Lily added frantically.

"We will," Dumbledore assured then froze suddenly. He turned to stare at the maze and the now empty clearing. "Someone has the cup," he whispered.

Horror spread though them when no one appeared. The port-key was set to apparate the winner to the clearing. Dumbledore's brow wrinkled, his mind awhirl. He threw a spell over the maze. His breath left him, his face falling in disbelief. He slowly lowered his wand.

"What?" Lily said. She grabbed his robes. "What? What is it?"

"Where's Dyre?" Draco shouted.

"He's not in the maze," Dumbledore said.

"What do you mean he's not in maze?" James demanded, returning after making sure both Narcissa and Lucius were protected from stray spells. "He left? How would he leave?"

Hermione gasped. "The cup," she said, stunned. "Someone must have changed the coordinates."

The bloody fucking cup.

"Where is my son?" James yelled, his face a mess of fury.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't know."

His eyes scanned the field, then up the castle, ablaze with suspicions. No one else could speak, their own thoughts trapped in a cycle of what-ifs and shocked hows.

With a start, Draco pulled out the wyvern, inspecting the bright flame in the center. Lily did the same. Both were brilliant, humming with life. Lily curled around the creature, holding it close and crying. Cetis folded a wings over Draco knuckles, spreading the other in a display of triumph. There was nothing weak in the way he held himself, daring the world to deny him.

Draco watched him and sucked in his breath. With a strength he wasn't sure was his own, he straightened and beat back the horrified silence in the back of his chest. "He'll come back," he said. "We'll just have to wait. He'll come back."

Hermione nodded, even as Leopold gave a chirp, asking for Dumbledore's attention. "He'll come back."

"He'll come back," Victor agreed, watching nothing but the darkness brewing beyond the sky.

The adults looked at them and said nothing. Gradually, the remaining glass creatures came to their masters, called by a force none of them, not even Dumbledore, quite understand how they were tied to. Some professors returned to the field, having their students in the hands of fellows and prefects.

Dumbledore took a single breath and faced them, explaining, divining, calming, as he did best. But even he knew, two successful attempts at foul play on the cup, it was not coincidence. Yes, there was a traitor among them. And as he soothed and manipulated his staff, he watched their eyes and wondered and damned his naiveté, his trust, that might have yet again killed a young boy so close to him.

o.O.o

Dyre stumbled when he landed, dazed and winded. He doubled over but did not fall, the cup dangling in his hand.

"About bloody time!" someone shouted.

Still stunned by the journey, he could only blink blearily. The land around him was scorched, but the sky was still a pretty blue, making him think that he hadn't traveled far. Someone kicked him in the back. He fell on his stomach and managed to keep hold of the cup from reflex only.

"Now, was that entirely necessary?" another person chided. He heard the click of a watch closing.

The figure behind him laughed, high-pitched and female. She straddling his back and grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back. He winced, a horrible tearing sound wrestling with sudden pain. She tore a chunk away away, forcing a scream from him. She laughed and turned him over. Blue eyes, dilated and jittery with cracked sanity, stared back. She was smiling.

"Now that's a scar," someone whistled. "Lemme see his back."

With a chuckle, the witch pulled him up from beneath her and slammed him against a stone effigy. The wind pounded out of him, the carved figure digging into his stomach and forehead. Ropes slithered and snapped, ensnaring his arms and tying him to the figure's girth. Still half in shock, he did nothing as his robes were torn off with a spell.

The sudden rush of cold air made him shiver, replacing the fog of confusion from his head. The most intimate part of him was on display. He had not braced for it, as he had at the Lake and found himself feeling weak and nauseous because of it.

He'd known worse. With a rope of self-control, he gritted his teeth and suffered the indignity.

"What a beauty," a man whispered, replacing the woman.

His hand petted the skin around the furrows. Dyre managed not to flinch, managed to keep the part of them that said only Draco should touch him there to himself. He felt it when the intent changed.

The hand traveled down its path, pausing and stroking, and kneaded his arse. Dyre did not respond, did not shut his eyes from where he'd turned his face to rest his cheek against the curve of the angel's shoulder. Yes, he'd experienced what a family should be like, how _real_ people could treat him with respect. He feared that he might have lost his ability to tolerate cruelty when he'd become to accept them. But no, it was the same. He was still a servant, a survivor. Even if he grew old, he didn't think that would ever change.

The person behind him moaned, pressing someone hard and damp to the curve of his back.

"Powers," a voice snapped.

"What?" he whined, turning his head.

Dyre's eyes flickered behind him, wondering what face this man might make if he killed him.

"That does not belong to you," a swarthy man, complete with untrimmed goatee and the same flash of wildness, more constrained than the woman's, said. He crumpled the paper of some type of smoke and sucked on the tip.

Powers snorted. "Stop being such a prude, Mulciber."

The man Mulciber blew out a breath of tobacco, uninterested. "If you're so horny, go rub one out behind a tree." He shuffled in his coat.

Powers stepped back from Dyre, glaring at him.

"Now, come on, Ernie," a new voice cajoled. This man was a spindly fellow, the type taken for misdemeanors like pickpocketing and flashing old women. He had a crop of dirty blond hair and moved like a vermin. His smile was too wide, eyes too bright. "We ain't'n no hurry. No reason to get'cha knickers inna wad."

Mulciber threw him off. "Get off me, piker."

"Boys," a woman called, voice oddly rich in the situation. There was a hint of cultured sultriness. She unfolded herself from a tombstone. "Save the foreplay. Let's not be rude to our guest."

There was some wild snickering, made by a solitary voice full of hysteria, from somewhere Dyre could not see.

"Go tell our lord that he is here," she ordered.

"My pleasure," said a new voice, full of slickness and excitement. There was no crack of apparation, no sound of footsteps, but he felt that the man was suddenly gone. It sent crawls down his spine.

Dyre rested his head against the stone. Blood ran sluggish from the wound on his scalp, slipping down his forehead and into his mouth. He tasted it and remembered that he was still alive.

They continued to speak above him, and Dyre didn't bother keeping up. They were irrelevant, subordinates. Even the woman who had spoken with some authority. Maybe he should have been listening though. A sudden snap was all the warning he got before a stinging hex pounded into his back. The air whooshed out of him, and he sagged on his heels slightly. The spell spread out, burning faintly and itching. His body shuddered, but his training kicked in before he even thought about it, bracing himself on his legs.

"Told you he wouldn't cry out."

"Poor boy," the pureblood woman (by the sound of it) said. She leaned over him, her hair brushing his shoulders. She smelled of honeyed perfume and rot. Her voice said softly into his ear, "Do you wish you were never born, Harry?"

He didn't answer. She wouldn't know it, but she was nothing to him, and the moments that they played with him prolonged the moment when he'd had to face the one who did matter. She didn't seem to mind his silence but moved her body so she was leaning on the angel beside him. The hex came again, striking harder.

"No," the woman said, watching him with honey-color eyes, likely the result of some potion. "You're used to pain. Do you want me to tell them to stop?"

Dyre breathed through his nose. "I think... what I want is entirely irrelevant in this situation."

He felt her surprise. It loosened her face before she let out a chuckle too loud to be feminine. Her fingers brushed his side, intrigued. "Such a good boy," she muttered, looking into his blind eye. Then, she drew away.

"He's so polite," she giggled. "Maybe he could teach you some manners."

"Careful, Carrow," the first woman taunted. Dyre couldn't turn his head to see her, but there was something lax and bland in her voice. "You're getting wet."

Carrow gave a faint sigh of disgust. "Better wet than frigid, my dear."

The witch snarled, and Dyre heard of movement of robe that meant she had stood. "I'm not your dear, you fucking cunt."

"No need to get in a pissing contest, Bella," another man (How many were there?) said soothingly. "She's just jealous, love," he whispered in a mockery of intimacy.

"Of course, Bella," the Carrow woman agreed. "It's all jealousy. You've nothing to worry about, dear."

"I did not give you permission to call me Bella, cunt," she snarled.

"Azkaban made you crass," Carrow scoffed offhandedly, and Dyre didn't have to see her to imagine the way she flicked her hand.

"Is Redan back yet?" someone said impatiently, cutting off the brawl.

"Don' lik'er be rushed now do 'e?" the thief answered, shuffling and jumping like a puck. "No prob'em waitin' I sees it. What, such lovely com'ny n'all," he leered. "Jus' sayin' s'all," he added to some unspoken threat. "Could carve boyo a new pisser," he offered.

"He wants him unharmed," Mulciber said.

He hopped down from his squat on a tombstone. "He still 'ave all e limbs."

"If you could control your bloodlust for a blasted minute."

It wasn't much longer that they had to wait. Dyre could feel it. The chaotic rumble that rode through the ley lines beneath them. The sudden sick that rose in his throat, accompanied by the acidic stench of bile. His exposed back made him shiver was suddenly beyond his tolerance of obscenity, his wrists rolling in the restraints. There was no crack of apparation to herald their return. Though he could not see, he could feel the lines open like a torn fissure.

Odin's eye jolted, mad, and he hissed, biting his tongue when he tried to close his mouth. The gathering grew silent. It was an unworldly silence, full of reverence. In the lull, Dyre heard the slight crunch of boots meeting dead leaves as loud as a rapist's stalk.

Dyre could not help the small instinctual struggle against the bonds.

"He's scared now," Bella whispered. She was quickly shushed.

Dyre pressed his face into the statue and closed his eyes. He knew fear. He knew fear. He thought of the Maiden. She had seen this, hadn't She? Her eye could reach even here. She loved him. She knew he could face this. He thought of how hard Yrsa was trying to weave him a happy ending. He thought of his promise to Draco.

Oh Draco.

He took a deep breath, but even then he could not rationalize what his instinct knew was coming, what they understood and revolted to think about. He was an animal, and animals always knew which beasts ate meat. He tried to capture his bravery, but it slipped from him. The only thing that kept him still was the ropes.

"Harry Potter," something hissed.

The voice itself did not scare him. He'd heard old men talk like that. That alone let him find his tongue.

"I am known by that name," he said with amazing ease. "But I cannot claim the house of Potter."

"Oh," the voice said with some amusement, lingering behind him. (Don't think about that! Don't think of it!) "Why not?"

"A servant cannot claim the name of a lord."

It laughed. It was low and obscenely normal, each syllable soft and clear.

"You are right. Dogs need no surname. Turn him around," it ordered in that safe, lulling hiss. "I cannot see his eyes."

The spell tying him to the effigy suddenly flipped. His abused back slammed into the stone, knocking the wind from him again. His arms were pulled over his head and locked behind the statue's neck. It was a little better than his position before. He took a moment to brace himself and opened his eyes.

He bit back a scream.

Dyre had seen _things_. He had seen the scions of Hel, horribly fouled chimeras, things made of pus, things formed from hatred and jealousy. Demons locked in ice, with too many mouths. (Too many, far far too many begging, screaming, aching mouths.) And he had seen them feed.

It was not only fear that made him sick. It was disgust.

The thing might once have been human, and that was the most terrifying. It was without eyelids, so the irritated pink veins stretched wickedly long, the orbs sitting in the skull like apples in a barrell. They wobbled and bobbed. The flesh of the thing was sewn like a bag, the mouth hewn without lips. Just an opening filled with the forked and mutilated stub of a tongue. The cavity of its nose was exposed, leaking red and sore.

Dyre held his breath. This was what hunted him. Yes, putting a face to it made it less terrifying, just barely. This was a monster. Not an old one, not one that demanded respect, that had sunk into other worlds and found its place there.

This was something human, perverted by greed and anger and hatred, that refused to descend where it belonged.

This was not natural. This was not something he could bare touching the same world as him.

A hand grabbed his jaw. Dyre's bile rose to the back of his throat. It pooled and he had to turn to let it spill from the side of his mouth. The creature waited and laughed. When Dyre felt the sickness curdling sour in his stomach and head, it touched him again. He flinched and tried without success to pull away.

There were no emotions in eyes without eyelids. He knew that, and that ripped smile made the entire creature only all the more surreal.

"You made me this way, Harry," it said, displaying that hideous tongue again, gnawed and floating in its mouth like the head of a corpse peaking up through a lake.

Pale and ill, Dyre felt something like a worm crawling through his skull. He shrieked but it fell short, full of weakness and bile.

"You did this," it purred, stroking his face.

Dyre looked up at it and felt something sovereign in him die. He knew it was lying. He'd seen the past. Voldemort had done this to himself, had chanted the spell that killed him and forced him through the gates of Hel. Voldemort had taken the backlash, had fled to the ley lines and waited. This body was only a construct, but Dyre, with his Eye, could see what lay beneath it. The resolve to do such a thing. The ability. And he had been bred by it. He had been bred by this maniac so he could have the secrets he desired.

The ability to conquer death.

He sagged. Yes, he was a puppet. The Harry Potter of this world had died for this creature's ambition, had been given up like a sacrificial lamb. This was the only reason he was here, to serve as fodder for this madman.

He knew. He'd always known. He'd dared to believe he could create his own soul. Even though that was the one thing magic could not do. He was a curse. That was all. The Maiden had coddled him, telling him sweets, and he'd dared believe Her.

He still could not Hate her. Even though She must have known. She loved him. She'd gifted him with the illusion of life only because She loved him.

But he was not Hers. He was not for any of the Gods of this worlds. He belonged only to a demented man, drunk on arrogance. This monster.

Dyre cried. A small sliver of the life he'd yearned for remained with him, carrying the face of a young boy with luminescent eyes, waiting for him to come back to him. Soon, even that would be gone though.

Yes, he thought. Not even you could make me real. I loved you. I love you. Forgive me.

This was not the end of things. The tapestry was still not complete. He remembered that for only a second before his mind slowly began to be swallowed by the worm. This was not the end. If Voldemort could swim in the unmanned night, so could he. He too could wait.

"Prepare the ritual," was the last he heard before the world folded, engulfing him in a sloppy gulp.

_The grim of the Norns was never simple._


	25. London Falling

_If every hour_

_Like this one passing that I have spent among_

_The wiser others when I have forgot_

_To wonder whether I was free or not,_

_Were piled before me, and not lost behind,_

_And I could take and carry them away_

_I should be so rich; or if I had the power_

_To wipe out every one and not again_

_Regret, I should be rich to be so poor._

~ _Liberty_ by Edward Thomas (cont.)

It had been an hour since Dyre's abduction. Someone had suggested a search party, but where would they search? The cup was a portkey, and Hermione believed he might return. It was a slim hope but with no other news, the only one they could cling to.

The tournament administrators whispered. Dyre's association with Draco, his resemblance to James, the Potters' interest in him had brewed rumor, and it followed here. Lily was hunched over her dragon, staring at the color as if waiting for it to disappear. She'd stopped crying in the last ten minutes, but it had left her eyes red and swollen.

Karkaroff was nowhere to be found.

Amid the whispers and speculation, shouts had broken out. All the students had taken shelter in the castle, the common rooms locked. Only Victor and Hermione remained, arguing.

Hermione was not a warrior, and he thought it better that she retreat to the castle. Hermione would hear none of it.

Madame Pomfrey had been summoned, and there were a few aurors on standby, hired for the tournament, but no one, save Victor and the others who understood Dyre's curse, believed the pitch was dangerous. None of them could possibly understand why one of the champions had disappeared or why the Potters had crumpled in on themselves in fear.

The girl stood stubborn, her jaw fixed in the perfect expression of obstinacy. Victor stood more frantic, trying and failing to make her see reason. He cursed her in Bulgarian, harsh and offensive. Her eyes narrowed, as if memorizing the sounds to look up and reprimand him for later.

"I'm not leaving."

He cursed again. His red face had the look of a wild boar blowing steam. Hermione drew herself up and stuck her finger in his chest.

"You think I'm going to leave him! You dare think I would leave him!"

Victor huffed and backed away. "Not your battle."

"The bloody hell it isn't!" she yelled back at him, shooting a defensive glance at the professors, daring them to correct her language. "I know what you think about honor. You want to tell me it's honorable for me to hide in the castle while he's in danger."

Victor bore the face of a man cornered but still kicking. Hermione spared no mercy for death throes and continued.

"I'm not an _idiot_," she snarled, as if finding that the worst insult. Her gaze flickered about her, wary of her audience, but she had no qualms for Victor. "He's _my_ friend. I am _not_ going to sit in that castle and _twiddle_ my thumbs like a... a... a stupid _girl_!"

"It is dangerous," he pronounced slowly.

She glared at him, hotheaded and furious, but her look was meaningful. "Everything is dangerous."

Victor looked away.

"It's like Lily all over again," Sirius mumbled.

Dumbledore stepped beside her. Gently, he touched her shoulder. "Lord Krum is right, my dear. You should be in the castle."

He had spoken kindly and reserved but with the authority of position. Still, she gave Dumbledore no more quarter than Victor. She did lower her voice, turning her body so she could engage him quietly.

"I don't mean disrespect, sir, but I'm not going into that castle."

"Miss Ganger," he said sternly, his grab tightening dangerously on her shoulder. "What do you think you can accomplish?"

Her lips tightened, but that was her only sign of weakness. "What do you intend to accomplish?" she whispered. Her eyes narrowed. "You gathered them here for a reason, didn't you?" She gestured subtly to the professors and administers.

Dumbledore was quiet. Hermione gave a brittle but triumphant smile.

"I don't know what I can accomplish, but I know it's more than if I was waiting in the castle."

He released her shoulder. "What would you have me tell your parents? If you are hurt here, when you should have been in the castle,"

She winced and looked down. A moment later, she shook off the blow and turned to him with clear, beseeching eyes.

"What would I tell myself, if I hid in the castle while my friend was in trouble?"

He had no answer for that. The old man sighed and placed his hand on her shoulder again, this time in commiseration.

"You are a good witch, Miss Granger, though I wish a little less so."

Her eyes were sad but her smile brimmed with pride. Victor eyed the headmaster suspiciously, but Hermione went to him, touching his arm. She stood beside him, speaking quietly of private things. Dumbledore left them.

There was roughly two dozen people on the pitch, most of them people he would trust with his life. But what about the life of a boy he'd only recently come to admire and love? This was a delicate position. He didn't want to believe that any of his professors had interfered with the cup, but he could not push the possibility aside. For Dyre's sake.

He skimmed the minds of the few people that met his eyes. There was nothing suspicious on the surface, and he dare not go deeper without some evidence. Save Karkaroff, everyone who could have tampered with the tournament was here, and he didn't Karkaroff would do such a thing. His disgust at having a clanless servant represent his school had been real.

A few others were more suspicious. The aurors had the opportunity but not the skill. It was the same with the Ministry officials. His staff had the means and the opportunity but why? What could motivate such a thing? He knew them inside out, all of them. They were no Death Eaters, not even people easily bribed. Blackmail maybe? He could not imagine a crisis in which they would feel that they could not come to him about.

His mind ran and ran and ran until he felt it going in circles. The crowd had gathered in groups, whispering amongst themselves. Most of it seemed innocuous, and why would it not be? Bragging would only draw attention to themselves. They'd been clever, and so far into the game, they were even less likely to slip.

Dumbledore had to think of something different. If he could not find a person with the motivation and the means to deceive the cup twice, what did that mean? That someone was hiding their ability as well as their intent. Thankfully that conclusion moved suspicion from his staff, but he could not let favoritism cloud his judgement.

He remembered Peter. He remembered the shy, anxious boy who had been so relieved to find friends among his house. He remembered thinking that James and Sirius overshadowed him and the guilt that followed that thought. Just because they were more exuberant, more easily lovable, did not mean that they were better. And even that had reminded him of a young lad named Tom Riddle, who had been just as socially awkward. Peter had not carried the cruelty of Tom, and Dumbledore had so badly wanted to believe that consorting with the bright fire that was James Potter and Sirius Black could only help him become brighter too.

It had worked with Remus. It had worked between Lily and Severus. Why not Peter?

That question haunted him at night. Why had he not seen the boiling resentment? For years, they had thought Peter the martyred hero, that Voldemort had obtained some mysterious magical object that let him pass through the wards. That he had _let_ the monster in...

How could he miss it?

He could not miss it again. He could not let Dyre die again.

He made a sweep through the crowd again. There were no invisible compatriots, no animagi, no glamours. He trusted his ability, and Minerva's, to spot transfigurations.

Suddenly, he thought of something, the bit of prophecy they'd chewed on. _Beware__the__trickster__'__s__lies__and__the__cane__of__mistletoe._ They'd thought of polyjuice but had not understood its part in the plot. Dumbledore had done his research and knew that the death of Baldur was the catalyst for Ragnorok.

He paled, hoping the symbolism was not literal. He shook himself and continued the thought. Now that Dyre had been spirited away, he understood the trickster. He was not looking for Hod, the blind god who had been used to slay his brother, but many-faced Loki, who bore the cane of mistletoe.

Surreptitiously, Albus moved through the groups, standing before the Marauders. They were weighed with silence and looked at one when he stepped into their circle. They had grieved with him, eaten with him, fought with him, and though so much younger, they knew the look of the Head of the Order of the Phoenix.

Like soldiers hearing the call of a bugle, they straightened, watching him with eyes like that of hunting hounds. Albus touched Remus' arm.

"My boy, why don't you circulate the crowd? We are not yet mourning."

Remus nodded. Albus' fingers tightened.

"Smell their breath," he whispered without moving his lips.

He released the werewolf. Kind, quiet Remus began the subtle job of slipping into conversation, as natural as the moon's waning. If his eyes were amber, that was not too significant. Sirius and James continued to watch him, waiting for his next orders.

He shifted his eyes towards the forest and the route to the school then towards the group that contained the Malfoys. They nodded and split. They would inform the rest of the plan. Severus would catch on. And they would cover the exits.

Albus drifted through the crowd again, finding Minerva. She was standing unbending, listening to her fellows without engaging in conversation. She had the look of a woman waiting to duel, serene and severe. She had only to glance at Albus before her eyes sparked. Unfolding her arms, she departed, finding a better vantage point. He smiled, as always, despite all these years, as impressed with her as he had been when a young witch from an old pureblood family told him she was going to surpass him in everything he had achieved.

He stood back and waited for the cards to fold.

o.O.o

Remus had never been a spy. They left that art to Severus, but he was patient and quiet by nature. No one noticed him sniffing around their conversations. When they glanced at him, all he had to do was smile and shyly shift away. Despite being a werewolf, and a beta at that, he had never felt the urge to assert dominance. He need only be acknowledge by a few. He had been bitten so young, he knew that was rare.

Sirius like to say it was the kindness in him, too strong even for the moon's curse.

He didn't often use his 'special abilities.' He felt like it was cheating. Why should he know who was coming around corners before everyone else? Why should he smell curses before they left the wand? Why should he know who wanted to have sex with who?

But when he'd been accepted into the Order and Dumbledore had patiently told him _how_ to use his senses, for the first time, he'd felt pride in what he was.

Yes, he thought, and it was like that now. There were spells that could detect polyjuice, but there were spells to deflect those spells. And a cycle after that in a maddening circle of magic. It was much easier to use his nose, something no one could do.

He knew what polyjuice smelled like (thanks to a youth spend in the Marauders). It was as disgusting as it tasted. He would have noticed if someone he spent a lot of time was using it, so he could already discard half the people in the crowd.

It was not so odd to approach the aurors. He worked for the Ministry, and he knew one of the man, if only from his face. They were bored and thought this little camp-out a waste of time, but none of them smelled of polyjuice.

It did not take him long to notice that someone was avoiding him. There was the stench of apprehension, not quite fear. He moved closer to Ludo Bagman and the smell spiked. He was speaking with one of the administrators about quidditch and barely even registered than Remus was there.

Someone shifted in the edge of his periphery. He recognized the green bowler hat, infamous in certain circles. Barty Crouch was Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. He'd been demoted after the first war from Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Remus had worked with him once. Though nothing official had been stated, everyone knew that the demotion had been because of the spectacle of his son being a Death Eater.

After the trial, Barty Crouch had lost just about everything. It was disastrous. Now, he was a shadow of the politician screaming for the Kissing of criminals and justice reform. Remus had seen him in the judging box but had passed him over, like everyone else.

Now, he had his undivided attention. He moved closer and Crouch moved away, keeping his head down. Remus was awash suddenly the absolutely _foul_ stench of hatred. There was no fear, nothing of the sickly smell he associated with urine. This was hot and burned. His hackles rose, his hair standing on end just in defense of it.

Without pause, Remus lost control. He snaked between Bagman and the auror and caught Crouch's sleeve. He didn't care that his teeth had changed, elongated and choppy like a mongrel's. Or that he had lifted Crouch clean off the ground.

Crouch screamed in outrage. He fumbled at Remus' grip, kicking his feet as his bowler hat fell off. In the confusion, Bagman and the aurors went to grab him, but Sirius cast a jelly-legs jinx at them. Not expecting the attack at their backs, they did not shield and went down with yelps.

Crouch was spewing spittle and threats, his face an ugly pewter and red. Remus growled, his eyes flashing gold. Crouch paused to stare at him, eyes going wide.

Dumbledore interceded. Crouch hardly noticed as he disarmed him. Sirius gently coaxed Remus to release him and Severus bound him with _incarcerous_. He fell to the ground. That was enough to jolt him back to attention.

"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted, mustache shaking.

Everyone had crowded around them, mystified at the spectacle. Dumbledore added authority to the situation and no one tried to free him. Remus, the crowd backing away from him in apprehension, bent in front of his face. Crouch lost his composure and sneered. That was all Remus needed.

"Polyjuice," he told Dumbledore, the syllables falling like blocks around his new teeth.

The crowd backed away, the one word enough of an explanation.

"Bloody hell," Bagman whispered, still lain on the ground.

The Crouch impostor snarled, a hidden sheen of madness rising to the forefront of his eyes. His gaze darted among the crowd and found no supporters. They landed back on Dumbledore and he gave a cruel smile.

"You will tell us where Dyre Durmstrang is."

The impostor curled his lips, exposing the sides of his teeth.

What would have happened next would never be known. A shot of something passed through the man's eyes. Dumbledore's eyes widened and he had already begun countermeasures for curses that stopped heartbeats when he realized it was something else.

Severus screamed, dropping to his knees beside him. His fingers dug into his arm. The ropes holding Crouch had loosened, but the man was not in the position to take advantage of it anymore than Severus. He threw his head back and laughed. The pain traveled through his core in ripples. He held out his hands to welcome it and howled.

Sirius punched him across the face.

Dumbledore knelt beside his friend, but there was nothing he could do. The surge eased. Severus was left panting, slick with sweat. He looked up at his teacher, and there was horror in his black eyes, more than enough for Dumbledore to read.

"You're too late," Crouch cackled from the ground, blood spilling from his lip.

James picked him up by his robes. "Where is Dyre?" he demanded.

The doppelgänger gave him a free expression, as if to say he had no more reason for secrets. He smirked, both relishing and pitying James' expression. "With my lord," he said. "He's gone now."

James threw him aside. The man landed on his shoulder. He gave a high-pitched chuckle, curling on himself in delight.

"What is going on?" Pomela asked, eyes wide and searching.

"We must fortify the school," Dumbledore said. No one obeyed him. He turned, eyes fierce, his mouth foreign. "Go!" he shouted. "Fortify the school!" He swept out his arm and they ran. "Protect the students! Warn the Ministry!"

"Warn them of what?" a single green trainee asked, standing helpless.

Dumbledore let an iron gaze rest on him. "The Dark Lord is risen."

For a moment, they all stopped. Hermione pressed her fingers to her mouth. They all paled, a few crying.

"GO!" Dumbledore ordered, thunder in his voice.

They went.

"What do we do?" Lily asked, coming to his shoulder. She too was pale but for none of the reasons of the others.

Soon, they were the only ones left in the clearing, the only ones listening to Crouch's mutilated giggles.

He could only look at, no words of comfort to give.

Lily snarled. She marched to Crouch. He gave a hyena's chuckle. She jabbed her wand in his face until he quieted.

"Where is my son?"

He clamped his lips shut but it could not stop the giggles, spilling out as he looked at her face. Her nostrils flared.

"_Creorhyra_!"

He screamed. She felt the thrashing of his body, watched his face as it morphed into pain. She did not stop.

Finally, the spell eased. He trembled, and she shook him upright.

"Why is my son?" she asked again, her voice quiet.

The laughter rose and fell, exhausted by pain. "All year," he said. "I was under your noses all year and none of you even noticed." He paused to gather a painful breath. "I thought it was going to be harder, but you all made it so easy. You weren't even looking for me!"

Lily's eyes blazed. A calmness ran through her. She breathed in a spell. It was on the tip of her tongue, so close, so close.

Dumbledore touched her shoulder. The world came back to her, the calmness receding like ice in morning. The anger had not dispersed though. Furious, she kneed him in the stomach. He wuffed. She brought back clasped hands, not caring that her wand was in her grip, and mashed her full force against his head. He went down moaning.

James crouched in front of him. "Where is my son?" he asked, even calmer than he wive, the coldness in his eyes reveling death.

"You don't have the time to torture me," he panted, a manic gleam in his eyes.

James raised his wand. It was Severus this time who stopped him.

"He's right," he said. "We don't have the time."

James' eyes narrowed. For a moment, he almost cursed him. Lucius stepped in, grabbing his shoulder. His expression did not change, but his arm lowered.

"Think you can handle what exists in my head, traitor," he spat.

Severus gazed back at him. Unlike James and Lily, there was no insanity or desperation spurring his actions. The darkness in Severus Snape was as natural as mountains.

"Do you think you can handle what I'll do your mind?"

Crouch paled, but Severus gave him no time to answer. He grabbed his temples and shouted, "_Legimens_!"

He fell through layers.

Severus swam the currents, swift with experience. He left spikes in his wake and heard, in some distant part still connected to his body, Crouch's screams.

_Good_, his mind purred.

There was some training present, but Severus worked through the illusions and distractions with exacting skill. There was nothing here that Crouch could hide. He didn't care who he was or how he had come to be here. He didn't care if the real Bartimus Crouch was dead. He cared about one thing and threw it like spears through Crouch's mind until he found it.

Shadows formed around a creature, but Severus didn't care about that either. He focused on the words. The hisses formed and he waited, a beast in the thrush, until he heard what he wanted.

The connection snapped. Severus found himself suddenly thrown. He was pulled back into his body, his mind snagging on closing doors. He barely made it through the last, battering against the lips of death until he was once more on the ground, hissing and panting in pain.

"Well?" Sirius demanded, his fingers tight on his arm.

Severus clenched his teeth, refortifying the barriers on his mind. The impostor was dead, by suicide or the like. He didn't need to look to know. It was a few seconds before he could bear to speak or even open his eyes. If he had been slower, he would have been trapped in the corpse. Not a pleasant way to exist.

"It's a graveyard," he hissed, dividing his attention so he wouldn't suffer brain damage later. "Little Hangelton."

They moved to leave. Severus snagged the sleeve closest to him. It happened to be James.

There was still glazed look to the man's eyes but it was filled with resolve. How much of that resolve would wound him, Severus wondered.

"They've performed a ritual," he said, working against the pain still whittling his bones. He clung to James' robe when he tried to shake him off. "This is important!" he snapped, glaring at him. It was like calming a hurricane. "The... the Dark Lord is a creature. He was weak."

"That's good then," Sirius interrupted, eager to be on the way.

Severus bit his tongue against screaming and concentrated. "He's not weak anymore. He's used Dyre, James."

"What have they done?" Dumbledore asked, coming beside him.

He shook his head. "He's right. There is nothing we can do to save him. He was chosen for this."

James threw him off in disgust. Severus hid his wince. Surprisingly, it was Draco who caught. He and the other two students had held back while they tortured Crouch, but there was no sign of trauma on Draco's face.

"He knew this would happen," he said to James, glaring. "He warned you and warned you."

"I'm not-" the man started to scream, eyes wild.

"Shut the fuck up!" Draco screamed back, making Severus flinch if only from the volume. His hair flared like a halo around his head, his eyes flaring. "Can you not do one simple thing?" he demanded, in the same high-pitched shrill. "He said to _wait_ for him!"

"You can't expect us to-" Sirius said.

"I can," Draco interrupted. "He fucking knew all of this would happen." He bit his lip, eyes downcast for a moment but he did not live in it. "He never says anything that he doesn't mean. If he said to wait here, then we will wait."

They stared at him. Draco stared back, alone and strong. He bore all the fierce righteousness of a man come into his own.

Cetis chose that moment to spiral on his shoulders. The wyvern slid in one smooth motion around his neck, stretching its neck and wings to yawn.

The blue burned brilliant in its heart.

Dumbledore lowered his hand, his eyes softening. He opened his mouth but that too, like so much, would be lost that day.

The world, rotten with Dark magic, burst open.

o.O.o

Voldemort breathed in. It had been so long since he'd breathed. It felt good.

He stretched his hands. He had the grey skin of old dead, tanned and fitted to him like leather. He felt blood running through his veins again, the weight of bones and muscles. He opened his mouth. Yes, he could eat again. He wanted to taste a human heart. His pulse fluttered.

Yessssss, this is what it felt like to be alive.

He was not completely human. He had the small, pointed teeth of a serpent, and he'd sacrificed his nose to have their scent. He'd never see colors again, only the flare of body heat. He felt it in his chest, cooler than the temperature of a human. He would not have imagined he'd miss the sensation of touch, but he did. Greatly so. To be able to feel his victims' flesh. He wanted to bury his hands in their intestines, touch the evanescent warmth.

He had missed the feel of blood, the _smell_.

"My l-lord," Bella whispered.

His gaze fell on her, and she crested beneath it, shuddering. His Bella, yes, he remembered adoration too. This body could accept it like his other couldn't. Yessss, he hissed. Yesss, yesss, yesss.

He was the God of this world.

One by one, his little death-eaters fell to their knees. When he had been granted immortality, he'd give it to them too, and he'd be able to take it away. _Power_ swam between his fingers. It ran like a single lash of rain up his arms, tingling in his head. He'd kill _everything_. He'd kill everything and bring it back and kill it and bring it back and kill it again. The _possibilities_ of what he would do. Delicious as blood. Oh lovely, heavy, flowing blood. He wanted to _swim_ in it.

"My Death Eaters," he whispered, imagining the feel of it in this new body, the way it would warm his chest, the way it would slick over his shoulders.

The Death Eaters shuddered, catching the edge of his emotion. Their mouths swarmed with saliva. They were suddenly hungry. They _wanted_.

"What do you wish, my lord?" Powers breathed, eyes shining darkly. They leaned forward, ready, willing, eager.

Voldemort stepped down from the altar. Amycus jumped forward to wrap him in a black cloak. He stood a full head and a half above him, towering easily over even Fenrir, who did not fall to his knees but met his gaze with a rush of wild excitement.

"Oh," he muttered softly, touching a finger beneath Powers' jaw. The man's chest heaved. "Are your ears empty?" he crooned. He glanced among them. "Are your bellies empty? Are your hands idle?"

"Yes!" they shouted together. They crawled forward, staring at him. "Yes! Yes!"

Voldemort smiled, showing the tips of his teeth. They shuddered and swooned.

"Should I fill it with screams? Should I fill it with... meat?" he grinned. "Should I give you vengeance!"

"Yes!" they cried. They cried and begged and screamed and triumphed.

"I want the world," he said softly, making them ache for sound.

Powers and Bella reached his robes first, fisting the fabric to their lips.

"Always, my lord," they promised. "Always. We will give it to you. It is yours."

He smiled sweetly, petting their heads. "I will feed you, my children. I will feed you from my world. Does that not sound sweet?"

"Yes, my lord," Johnston said, weeping.

Voldemort straightened. They obeyed the unvoiced command and retreated to the edge of the circle. He surveyed them again, proud.

"Alecto," he called.

She rose to her knees.

"I want you to go to Hogwarts and find Igor," he purred. "Take Fenrir."

She nodded. Fenrir gave no motion but to grin, revealing sharpened yellow teeth, gritty with old flesh. They vanished together.

Voldemort watched them leave in approval. Steadfast, he walked to the angel.

Dyre hung from the ropes. They had taken nothing he could not do without. Voldemort swiped the blood trickling down his face and tasted it. It was right that the first blood he should have was his enemy, his servant, his love.

Dyre did not move.

Voldemort watched him. With a contented hiss, he took his jaw, lifting his head. "Do you want to see your precious Draco?"

Dyre gave no response.

Voldemort ran a hand through his hair, resting when his fingers reached his ear. He caressed the lobe then turned away, addressing the gathered Death Eaters.

"We should assure his mother that he is alright. I'm sure Dumbledore is worried as well."

He was met with mad grins and laughter. With a flick of his hand, the bonds holding Dyre up were severed. The boy fell to the ground. Voldemort's magic wrap around him, easily intermixing with the boy's own. The mass of it whirled, burrowing and squirming. He supposed it could be compared to maggots.

Voldemort walked with him back to the center ring. Without prompt, the Death Eaters enclosed them, offering their magic. Nightlee jumped up and down as he joined the circle, wringing his hands as his dirty curls bounced.

"London bridge is fallin' down," he sang softly, giggling. "Fallin' down. Fallin' down. London bridge is fallin' down. Dance o'er my Lady Lee."

Voldemort linked them and summoned the cup. The graveyard vanished in a swirl of blue magic.


	26. The Screams

_And yet still I am half in love with pain,_

_With what is imperfect, with both tears and mirth,_

_With things that have an end, with life and earth,_

_And this moon that leaves me dark within the door._

~ _Liberty_ by Edward Thomas (cont.)

The world burst. That was the only way Draco could describe it. Something... rolled, like the way a carcass rolled when it decayed, bloated and heavy with maggot. He'd heard people say they'd seen corpses explode during the worst of the summer swelters. He didn't really believe them until now.

The world puked black. Draco covered his face, and when the air righted, a nightmare stood in the center of the pitch, standing atop the still squirming darkness.

The Death Eaters spread out, undulating against them like undertow. Draco would have been done in in the first few seconds if his mother had not thrown a shield over him. Spells flew in a maddening array, and Draco, for the first time in his life, grasped the chaos of war.

He might have been a hare. He didn't understand this. There was not one place that his eyes could stay. He was in the middle of a vortex. There was screaming, fighting, grunts of pain, cries of triumph, and in the midst of it, Draco stood like an island, lost.

Finally, someone grabbed him. He could have wet himself with relief when he saw it was Victor. He had Hermione behind him, protecting her. Though she had out her wand and was firing spells, she had the wild, frightened look that he felt blooming in his chest. It was obvious she could not have stood without Victor.

Victor snarled at him, captured in a duel with man that looked like a condor. Hermione grabbed his arm and hauled him beside her.

"You alright?" she screamed in his ear to be heard over the riot.

He nodded, still shell-shocked. His father blazed in front of him, holding his own against a leaping Death Eater. He didn't even spare his son a glance, rolling away on the ground. The earth blistered where he'd been.

Draco swallowed, clinging to Hermione.

"Draco," she whimpered.

He shook himself. There was no time to worry, no space for anything but survival. Victor was trying to move them to the cover of the stands. Draco didn't even try to draw his wand. He was a terrible shot, useless when put on the spot.

Instead, his eyes traveled back to the point where the world had bled. Though he'd never seen him, he knew it was Voldemort. He watched his retainers with a private smile, not joining the fray. And in his arms was Dyre.

Draco felt the world, spinning in confusion, stop. He felt the air travel through his lungs, painful with the presence of lightning. Dyre hung limp in Voldemort's grasp, limbs dangling, his throat exposed.

No, he thought. He can't be dead. He promised. He promised!

He wasn't stupid enough to slip out of the circle of safety Victor had provided him, but he couldn't look away. He couldn't stop searching. His skin was so pale, carrying blue and grey tints that he knew belonged to death.

"No," he cried, fisting the ground. Nothing existed, not a war, not augury, but that lone body, strewn in the arms of a monster.

"Dyre!"

o.O.o

Screams. Dyre heard screams.

Somewhere, in the deep back of his mind, he knew that meant something. But it was so far away.

Something. He was here. (Where was here?) There was a reason. (No, it was meant to be.) There was... something.

His thoughts fled from him when he tried to pick them. It was frustrating, but he wasn't sure why.

This wasn't where he was supposed to be.

He frowned. Yes, he was supposed to be here. This was were he was meant to be. It was Fate. His skuld.

The word came like a call. Something fluttered, wings of something he might almost barely remember. He waited, straining his hands to let it land.

Finally, it did, and he remembered.

Draco.

The ritual.

He knew where he was, though he wasn't sure if it had a name or a place. He knew he was in Voldemort's arms. He knew who was screaming.

He couldn't leave. Not yet.

Soon, even this consciousness would be too much. He was going to lose much more, and he would have to bear it.

He understood so little of the prophecy that anointed him, so very little, but he believed. He believed in the duplicity of the Norns, the love of the Maiden. He believed that things were never as simple as a tyrant and a hero. He clung to the whispery walls of his cage and listened to the cries behind the darkness, fading in and out.

He'd done harder things. He'd watched Yrsa disappear and know they would never again meet. He'd let Draco comfort him and made the choice to stay with him. He'd walked right into Voldemort's arms, knowing what he would find. He could wait. He could wait in his cage and believe that the end was only as cruel as the beginning.

o.O.o

This was the place. He could feel it. Magic filled this clearing like a tumor. It was everywhere around them, coaxing his little eaters along the game.

Yes, ripe was the word.

He had only to think it, and his subjects felt him. They fell back, leaving the enemy tense and exhausted.

When he had all of their attention, he stood his little doll up. Harry obeyed boneless, perfect, leaning against him like a soft hand. Blood dribbled down his face, vivisecting his vivid cheekbones. The energy of the ritual had left cruel edges of burnt skin around his scalp and around his eyes, flesh-eaten kohl.

"Tom."

Yes, he knew that voice. He knew Dumbledore would step forward first, always the leader, always the one everyone looked up to. He was going see him broken. He was going to _break_ him. And he was going to relish it. Even the thought brought richness up the back of his throat.

"Do you like it?" he asked, resting his fingers along Harry's neck. And the boy's head tilted, exposing more of that wondrous vulnerability. He breathed it in.

"Tom," Dumbledore said, his voice so gentle Voldemort almost snapped and killed him with a spell. "Give him to me."

He extended his hand. Disgust surged. He would never touch this man unless it was a touch full of pain. He followed the hand up to the wizard's face and found something that made him smile. He tucked his doll closer.

"You think he's dead."

Dumbledore's hand lowered. Watching the old man's eyes, he opened his mouth and tasted Harry's ear. His tiny teeth poked through the skin like butter, filling his tongue with metal. And slowly, he chewed, shearing the flesh into sheds.

His Harry twitched. It was a tiny moan, like in slumber. His eyes tightened only briefly then loosened, falling back whether into whatever world he had descended into.

"Dyre!" the stupid Malfoy brat screamed, trying to run for him. His father grabbed him and sheltered him.

"Give him back!" Lily Potter demanded, blazing with all the triumph of motherhood.

Voldemort wanted to carved out her eyes. Then, her tongue. He'd like to see the way she looked then, gurgling and scratching herself.

"He is mine," he hissed.

His lips came away wet, and he delighted in the looks on their faces, seeing their precious child's blood smeared on his mouth. His new, shiny tongue darted out and licked it up.

Dumbledore quelled his troops before they did something stupid. He turned his gaze back on his former students and what he must see. There was still so much regret in the way the fool looked at him.

"Return him to us, Tom. He's served his purpose for you."

Voldemort blinked. Then, he laughed, throwing back his head. They were so stupid. These were his opponents? He didn't know whether he should be impressed in Harry's reticence or disappointed in their intelligence.

"You have no idea what he is, do you?"

"What is he, Tom?" Dumbledore said gently.

Did he think he could _talk_ to him, Voldemort wondered. That this was some misunderstanding. That they could ever get the illusion of their little boy back.

"Tom," he hummed.

He glanced down at his doll. Harry's breath pulsed gently, fragile. He touched his doll's face, seeing the spark of innocence that had transformed him into what he was now oh so long ago, presented to him by a Fate.

Strange, but the last time he'd held this boy was when he was a infant wasn't it? If it had not been a fever dream. And he'd been just as helpless, just as much his though he hadn't yet known it.

"Tom is lost, Professor. He was lost and he died." He looked up, freeing himself from the memory. "I'm sorry. Did you love him?"

He smiled.

Redwyrm released a hysterical laugh, doubling over. Dumbledore's stare remained steady, fixed on Voldemort. Voldemort gave a small, elegant chuckle in response.

"No, of course not. He scared you a bit, didn't he?" After all these years, he was still as bitter as he was proud, that a eleven-year-old boy could frighten Britain's greatest wizard. "I should thank you for that. Though I didn't understand it at the time. You were a marvelous teacher, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore flinched.

"You know," Voldemort said, feeling talkative. "It's strange." He traced the pulse sleeping in Dyre's neck. "It was my fate to find him, to make him mine. His to come to me. All the secrets of the world."

He laughed.

"He's just a boy. I could have killed him whenever I wanted. I made him. All those years..." His fingers tightened. "All that planning, killing that little brat to make this curse, to get this goddamn eye." He curled his nails around Harry's eye. "To get all this power. And he's still nothing but a child."

Voldemort released his magic. It burst into needles, burrowing into the scars on his back. Harry's eyes opened, no more alive than a bolt of electricity funneled through a carcass. Gaping, the boy raised his hands, touching Voldemort's arms and shoulders. He arched, caught in the momentum of the pain and magic.

No more human now than a spell.

o.O.o

He could feel it, inside his cage. The final moment when he could chose to save the world or end it.

Fenrir and Alecto skirted the battle, a man bouncing bond on the werewolf's shoulder.

The altar rose, whether from a spell or because the earth just _knew_, he didn't know. He crawled atop it, exposed his back to the sky. Was this how the world was made? The sky bowed over her hard-tender earth, preparing to be broken to birth the stars. This must have been the pressure. It swelled and rioted within.

His hands gripped the corners of the altar and pushed himself up. The power churned so great he wasn't sure he could bear more.

Could he bear having such power? Could the world bear him? Or would he sink into madness?

He braced himself. Faces, memories surfaced in his mind. A girl returned to her Tower, trapped and lonely. A Maiden with hair of white, weaving and weaving and weaving, smiling when he sat in her lap and read to her of creatures of a world she could never touch. A boy, waiting for him.

Yes, a voice hissed inside him like baked coals. He was prepared to be broken. He would be torn apart over the world so it could bloom. He could take the blow. He could take the fire and spare the world its burning.

Tears came. Thinking on the times he would lose. His selfish, arrogant, darling prince. It would be a long time before he touched that hand again.

_You could still-_

No.

The killing curse was wild, spiraling out of air alone from Voldemort's hand. It cracked in a wide, thick streak, as if sentient and _wanting_ to be released. It struck with a bolt of thunder, smashing into Karkaroff's chest and flinging him backwards. He didn't even have time to scream.

The brand, the exposed whorl that made him brother to wicked beasts. The last of the key that Voldemort needed to control the world's under-things. The magic spiraled out of Karkaroff in invisible bonds, coalescing and winding like a snake to ensnare Voldemort.

The pressure spiraled, and for a moment, Dyre could breathe. He looked up from his knees. Draco stared back, begging. And he knew it was a mistake. He'd made the wrong choice, and there was no time to fix it.

The guillotine fell, and the apology on his lips was washed away. Everything was washed away.

Dyre screamed.

o.O.o

_You will know pain, the old crone says._

o.O.o

His body twisted. He screamed.

There was nothing but the pain. His voice beggared itself. It wrought sounds unimagined except for those deep, dark places housing punished gods. It whored itself and spilled.

He broke. Diving to catch at something, anything. No release. No release. Something inside him crumpled and then tore, and his scream found the damned kingdom, laughing and whimpering with jagged edges like broken teeth.

He moved onto his back and there was almost pleasure in the way the magic split around him like a great mouth to swallow him whole. It came forward and he arched. Blind. Deaf. Senseless except for eternity.

He was forgetting. He tried to find a face, but it was washed away, impossible to hold in the deluge. Even when his throat tore and the screams became gurgles, horrible mutilations of whispers. When his legs and arms no longer had the strength to flail and twitched like broken wings. When his single eye dulled and the pain still continued.

Let me die.

There was nothing anymore, and even "anymore" became a delusion. Nothing. No worlds. No things. Pain. Pain. Pain.

_My Dyre. I love you. My Dyre._

The pain stopped and did not stop. It was there, a part of him. It came in the lunge of a looming shadow rather than blister a thousand suns.

Silence came, soft in the hard ridges of his subconscious. And he knew he'd been destroyed. That was no such thing as a "he" left to destroy.

o.O.o

_You will know helplessness, the virgin says._

o.O.o

Dyre stood. The Morsmordre swam languid in the flesh of his back.

Voldemort's fingers curved in his hair. Harry was beautiful, bleeding, his eyes so very dull. Voldemort felt the tautness in him, humming like a harp. He was bowed around his power, and Voldemort had only to release him.

He leaned a lipless mouth into his ear. "Break them," he said.

He waited for Voldemort's fingers to finish the curl they had started in his dark locks. With no sign of intelligence, he turned and entered the battlefield.

o.O.o

Threads broke in front of him. They snatched at each other like oroboros, opening and gnawing and snapping again in brilliant lapses of gold. They were different paths he could take, but he touched only the first.

It pulled him into the fight. The threads snagged, rubbing against one another in a friction of heat. He stepped passed it, leaping into another. He entered a fold between the moment when the strings broke apart, fibers clinging with static, and swam on a current of light.

His body disintegrated. He felt the popping sounds of sand placing muscle, particle replacing skin, as part of his mass drifted away from him. Perhaps the marrow in his shins, perhaps the skin off his right lung, perhaps the molar in the back of his mouth.

The threads separated and dumped him across the pitch. He stepped through another and this time lost a great chunk of meat off his finger. Then, he stood before Dumbledore.

The old wizard was keeping the Carrows at bay with a cat o' nine tails, oiled in fire. The whips hissed and cracked, breaking their shields so they were forced to lob shots passed the fire, hoping to strike him on luck.

Silent, he slipped into their guard, invisible for only a second while light became matter once more. He tasted metal when he breathed. He watched the weave and again took the first set down at his feet.

He moved. There was no hesitation as he followed the strokes of Dumbledore's whip. Ribbons of heat seared his face. Dumbledore blinked, disbelieving, and faltered. Dyre rushed forward, watching the path shift like a river. He touched Dumbledore's arm and snapped it.

The man gave a cry of surprise. Dyre knocked his elbow in his throat, taking his voice.

The fire lash failed.

Break them, his master had said. Dyre reached into the magician's core, finding the live, flushing vines. He tore them out.

Dumbledore tried to scream even passed the aching bruise in his throat. Dyre brought forth the shining mess of his magic, squirming like a squid leaking golden sap. He let it fall to the ground and the light slowly died. Not even a corpse remained.

The pitch had fallen silent, watching the greatest wizard of their time castrated. Dumbledore sobbed, burying his face in his knees.

Slowly, laughter came. It drifted ahead, fell, and filled the pitch like poison gas. Voldemort rocked back on his heels and laughed.

Sirius screamed and renewed his vigor, blasting spells through his opponents, but they all knew. This was the death throes of a downed beast.

They were done.

o.O.o

_And you will know betrayal, the mother says._

o.O.o

Yrsa threw the weaving. The work splintered, rips running through the fabric. The threads unraveled. She remained standing woodenly, her breath hitching uncomfortably.

Gently, a fair hand righted the weave. It picked up the stools, separating the threads and setting them aside.

"It's not fair!" Yrsa said, tears sliding over her face.

"He chose this path."

"It's not fair!" she shouted again, her cheeks red.

It was silent a moment, the only sound Yrsa's frustrated sobs.

"It is only a moment. They all just seem to last forever."

"I don't want it to end like this."

The hands took her own, easily loosening them. They guided her back to the weave.

"Then change it," the voice said, smiling softly.

Yrsa sniffled and nodded. Her fingers glided over the threads, plucking out the frayed ends and separating the bonds that had been mixed. She undid fifty years of work, snapped the wood over the last strand, and started again.

o.O.o

_And you will die. _

_Alone._


	27. Dreams

_Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground _

_His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, _

_Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were clos'd, _

_While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the Earth, _

_His ancient mother, for some comfort yet._

~ John Keats "The Fall of Hyperion"

The night held all the delicious science of a dream. They had fought to the last. Let loose of hope, they had screamed and killed and tried to die on the wands of his little eaters, but they knew. And when the last had been carried to the ground, snarling, nipped and bound, they disarmed them. Lined them up beside their fallen comrades, their dishonored general. A few even cried.

A dream. Only one thing made it real.

Harry approached his side. Dots of red colored his face, his own dried blood flaking around his nostrils and mouth.

Voldemort tilted up his beaten face. "Well done, Harry."

His eyes were exposed, yet they held all the useless muster of a corpse. A tool with all the intelligence of a god and none of the souls of men. He'd murdered his father. He'd raped men on the cruel knife of imperio, had them cum in their daughters' wombs and watched all the lovely waste borne of his sickly world. He only barely understood his own madness, didn't care so long as it gave him pleasure.

Harry's face was a thousand times more pleasing than any of the sins he'd reveled. He wondered if this was love. The disease that had torn his mother open on the spear of a muggle's dirty prick. This was the first time he'd ever touched something he didn't want to tear open.

Voldemort slipped Dyre's dirk free and leaned to whisper in his ear.

"Do you love me, Harry?"

Harry opened his mouth. His teeth were stained, and the croak that erupted was barely human. His tongue made no motions of speech. After a moment, he closed his mouth. His teeth were still red when he opened his mouth again, and the voice like came, like an anvil, was not a boy's.

"_What will you?"_ the doll said from that hole.

Voldemort pulled his Harry closer, ignoring the sweet stench of rot drifting from his neck.

"Will you do anything for me?"

"_Yes,_" the apparition said.

Voldemort pressed the dirk against him, letting his fingers linger against his bloodied chest.

"Look Draco Malfoy in the eye and kill him," he said.

Harry took the dagger and turned around.

o.O.o

Draco couldn't believe this was happening. His parents were in chains. His godfather, the ones he called Uncle, his old professors, they were helpless, taken to ground like hunted rats. And Dumbledore was broken.

This couldn't be happening. He tried to shut it out. So _hard_. But every time, when he had almost closed off the nightmare, there was that one moment when he had to look up again, just to see Dyre. Hoping.

And he felt like he was dying. Over and over, every time the illusion did not fade. He'd let this boy into his body. He'd cradled him and caressed him. And he stood over them, a wraith made of blood. It was the mercilessness in his eyes, the apathy, that played over and over in his mind, a democracy of hell. Rinse and repeat.

A sound and there were boots in front of him. Shivering, Draco looked up. Even with the knife in his grip, it was impossible to fear him. He was far too past that. Part of him knew it, in the back of his mind, that he was going to die. But it was Dyre. And he couldn't think anything past the dumb pain.

He cried.

"Who killed Cock Robin?" Nightlee sang. He danced on his toes. "I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin." He broke off in a fit of laughter.

Harry descended to a knee and grabbed Draco by the throat.

No one could save him, he thought. And he was almost glad he was too stupid to think of anything else.

"Kill him!" Bellatrix jeered.

"Kill him!"

"Kill him!"

"Kill him!"

Dyre looked into his face. Draco wasn't sure if he imagined its intensity. They were eyes as dead as a raven's. Draco swallowed around the hand, fighting the madness crawling the edges of his consciousness, growing with the strength of the lynch-mob. There voices beat against his skull, instilling a new, nervous terror.

Then, Dyre released him. He slumped back on the ground, striking his chin. It winded him a moment, and he coughed. When he crawled back to his knees, the clearing had gone silent, and Dyre's face was turned, listening to something in the wind.

"What is thissssss?" Voldemort whispered.

Draco curled away, more terrified of the malice in that voice than anything in his life. When Dyre didn't respond, Voldemort came forward. Draco glanced at the boy, wondering how anyone could possibly ignore such blatant violence.

Voldemort raised his wand but hesitated. Calming, he lowered his aim and slid around the boy's side. Gently, he touched his face, turning him back to his gaze. Draco shivered and tried to make himself small.

"Disssobediencssssse?"

Dyre gazed back at him despondently. He opened his mouth.

"_The damned may take only the damned_."

Draco understood. Even soaked in despair and fear and shock, he knew. Dyre had rules. Rules Draco only partway believed. It drifted through his mind, surfacing wearily. He could only kill his master.

The grip on Voldemort's wand tightened.

"What good are you then?"

Dyre stared at his master. Then, he took a step forward.

Voldemort's wand was up and between them in an instant. Dyre stopped and something like confusion crossed his face. It was horribly childlike, so out of place amidst the gore. Draco shivered again.

The two stood there, awkwardly together. Finally, Voldemort lowered his wand. The boy touched their chests, cradling his hands around Voldemort's neck in a parody of lovers. Voldemort lowered his head in surprise, and Dyre opened his mouth once more.

Looking down, Voldemort could only see the darkness of it. No tongue, no throat, no teeth. It ached then swallowed him. Voldemort gasped.

Cities burned. He saw them. Muggle cities, littered with debris, houses torn open and belching black plumes. A terrible panic had arrested the city. There were cries and screams, and all the while, the fires continued to feed. Shakily, the world tried to climb to its feet and fell. The women were the loudest. They spoke in wails, lost children, lost lovers, lost homes. And below them was the sound of breaking, as some gathered their spoils. Grave robbers, coming in the dust and ash. Their greatest serenade was of glass, their own calls of victory only ballads to that.

Voldemort had done this. It was not the personal torture he usually favored. This was not a family torn apart. This was millions, and he realized how small he had been. The bodies strewn here, set aside like abandoned toys, were victims of everything, of an everything that he created.

He saw more. He saw the disease he had spread among the towns. He saw people covered in black sores, felt the inside of their bodies pressed tight with tubers, the lot of them aching to burst like a nest of spores. He saw the fear riding on the cloak of death, the madness as neighbors tore each other apart, burned each other alive. He didn't need imperio. They did all themselves. He was merely the catalyst. The god.

The boy released him.

Someone was panting. He almost told them to shut up before he realized it was himself. The curse watched him, waiting.

Voldemort had no hestiance. "Give it to me." He seized the boy's collar. "Give it to me," he demanded. "I want it. Give it to me!"

Harry was calm. Voldemort licked the corner of his mouth, pulling him back by his hair. His fingers curled as if he could rip the power out of his skin.

Draco prayed. He did not know what Dyre had bestowed the Lord in that kiss, but he remembered the taste of Light he'd found between the sheets in his chambers. He'd only felt a hint of the power in the boy and prayed that Dyre would disobey. The craze in Voldemort's eyes, longing in a man better dead.

But of course, Dyre obeyed, and Draco, for the first time in his life, cried for the world.

Harry stepped back from his lord. The ground had been churned and scorched from the battle. It was not hard for him to find a place torn of green, more blackened than most. He banished the little remains of his clothing with a thought and knelt.

He pulsed. Just once. And the earth where he touched was no more, Dark magic making a shallow hollow. Lifeless. With his teeth, he tore the veins out of his wrist. What came was not blood but ichor, putrid and brown. He opened his other wrist and hung them out over the plane. As the liquid congealed and coalesced, he spoke.

"_Through the blood of the Prince of Gallows, I call you from the World Beneath_."

Something moved in remembrance between Draco's legs. He shut his eyes. He'd felt this power, when Dyre was buried deep inside him. He whimpered and tried to keep silent, clamping his legs together.

"_You who are unclean,_" Harry said and went to smear his wrists on the ground. "_You who are godless. Plague._"

Draco gasped. With a cry, he fell on his back. He opened his eyes and found his father watching him, not understanding. He couldn't bear the humiliation and turned away.

"_Hunger,_" Harry said._ "Rape. Nurtured in me_…" He bent his lips to the pool. "_The Son of the Hanging King entreats you, my kin_," he whispered."_Come_."

Draco screamed. There was nothing of pain or pleasure. It was the cry of a lost child, forgetting what the light had looked like. Bound, he jerked and clawed like an animal. Suddenly blind, he was tasteless, unable to feel his own tongue. He forgot his father's eyes, such a thing as words. He lifted on the cusp of an edge, begging the madness to retreat. It laughed and crawled up and through.

It was the last thing Draco could feel. He collapsed, fragments of himself returning before he retreated. He remembered enough to try once to open his eyes. Something like a man's fingers pressed down on his lids, and he accepted the last of Dyre's gift to him. He fainted, never to see the nightmare his love had summoned.


	28. The Death of a Boy

_Out of the night that covers me,_

_Black as the Pit from pole to pole,_

_I thank whatever gods may be_

_For my unconquerable soul._

_In the fell clutch of circumstance_

_I have not winced nor cried aloud._

_Under the bludgeonings of chance_

_My head is bloody, but unbowed._

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears_

_Looms but the Horror of the shade,_

_And yet the menace of the years_

_Finds, and shall find, me unafraid._

_It matters not how strait the gate,_

_How charged with punishments the scroll._

_I am the master of my fate:_

_I am the captain of my soul._

~ "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley

A hand clawed through the blood. It pushed against the film like a rubber sac. Harry smiled in delight. As if sensing him, like a young babe, it reached out. Harry let it touch his face. The claws raked down his cheek, splitting his face. Harry laughed. He leaned down on his elbows and touched his face to the pool.

The monster rose up through him. Pulling the pool with it, it came like a waking, chest first. Harry gasped, what small light leaving his face. His eyes drooped. Something bright and blue rose out of him, worn on the beast. Harry slumped and did not move again.

The creature stepped out of Harry's body. There was no grace, no dignity in such a thing. It had only a structure that once might have been human a thousand years ago. Now, it stood, tortured into crookedness, all sharp pinioned points, smooth skin, jutting bone as if starved. Its only majesty was in its size, twice than of a man. It hid its head in its collarbone, hands cradling a skull smooth of distinction. Sacks of skin flagged over its groin, as if dripping, slowly sinking over its elbows and knees as well.

It whimpered.

Slowly, some of the Death Eaters, like curious schoolboys, started to move before Voldemort jerked and shushed them.

It twitched. Slowly, moving with all the coy flirt of a spider, it lowered its hands. With a slurp, the slack skin rolled, kneaded, and the legs and arms smoothed into an impressive man. Its hands were as large as the head, becoming long and regal - a strange, distended beauty. The face was smooth, empty except for the indentions of eyes and nose, like it was wearing a sack for a face.

With a pretty fingernail, it sliced itself a mouth, cutting through the brown skin.

Blocky teeth, large and with the texture of carrion-beetles, flashed. Inside the shiny filth of its skin, they were like insects inside a cadaver. It gave a smart smack of its lips and a practice grin, rolling its jaw

It turned towards the Dark Lord. In a slow, genteel motion belied by the ugliness of its face, it bent and addressed.

**You are one who summoned me?**

Voldemort hesitated.

**Hmm, **it hummed, tapping its lip.** I scare you?**

Voldemort stepped back. "No," he said, daring to give it an imperial look. "I fear nothing."

It laughed. It was a sound a wolf might make if it knew how. It opened its mouth, exposed an endless line of teeth, going further and further back into its throat. Dizzying. A few who tried to follow it suddenly fainted.

**Huuumannn**, it hummed.** Pride, I see. Wrath. Hate. **It laughed again. **Desire. You dream destruction. Good to have dream.**__It tilted its head. **But Death Eater are you?**

Voldemort frowned. "What other man has done what I've done? I've killed! I've killed more than anyone else can dream," he said with a cruel smile. "And I've captured the Prince."

The saint stood still.

**Yes, **it said. **You take Prince. But you are stupid, human. You ignore rules.**

"What are rules to creatures like us?" Voldemort said. "We are chaos. We destroy."

The creature stared at him with its teeth.

**We too are ruled. You are only half. ****Many kill. No fear to kill.** It smiled.** Fear to die. Dream only half. You are not King to command Prince.**

A finger reached and tapped the side of Voldemort's face.

**You should have learned rules, little mortè. Power is not enough. Never enough. **

It breathed and despite his protests drew Voldemort into its face.

**Soul is too small.**

With a wet slurp, it sucked off Voldemort's face. When the flesh tore away, Voldemort was still screaming.

The Death Eaters tried to curse it. Unfazed, it continued to eat away the pieces of Lord Voldemort. All the while he screamed. It sucked in his fingers and gnawed them off, traveling up his arms. It crunched down on his legs, licking around the blood. And when everything but the gristle mess of his head was left, he was still screaming. The hel saint picked him up by the scalp.

**You wish to live forever? It shall be your will. Live forever, Lord Voldemort. Forever and ever and ever.**

It laughed and plopped the rest of his head into its mouth like a cherry. The Death Eaters had either scattered or sunk to their knees.

o.O.o

Crunching. Slurping. Screaming. It was a long time before the sounds stopped. The air was thick with sick, urine, and death, rolling through the putrid scent of brimstone.

The silence came, aided only by whimpers. The creature moved to the center ring and crouched where Dumbledore was crying, suspended on a throne of wire.

**And you, wizard? Will you unlock secrets within Prince of Gallows?**

"No," Dumbledore whispered.

It leaned closer, caressing the corner of the man's chin with its overlarge, bloody hand. Dumbledore shivered and tried to escape it.

**You are sure? **It purred gently.** You might have love. You might have… Ariana. You might be able to save world. You could use me for greater good.**

Dumbledore shuddered. "No."

The demon withdrew. **Pity.**

o.O.o

"Please!" Lily shouted. "Please, not him! Anyone but him!"

Draco opened his eyes. The scent was the first thing that hit him. It was full of blood and urine. He blinked, a complaint on the end of his mouth, but Lily's screams interrupted him again. He sat up and saw a creature standing over Dyre.

The night came back to him. With a rush of adrenaline and fear, he was wide awake. His tongue tripped around his teeth.

The creature crouching over Dyre, cradling him like a bird. It fastened its lips over his jaw and breathed. Dyre's chest swelled. A quiet flash passed between them, and Dyre blinked, looking up at the monster.

He sighed.

**Yes, Brother,** the creature said, moving his hair from his face.** Captor is dead.**

Dyre was silent. His face was grey and Draco suddenly recalled him tearing open his wrists. Even now, they lay gaping, a bare twinkle of blood sliding through them.

**You are finished, **it said. **You are free.**

Dyre made a small smile, cradled in the arms of a monster.

**You are done. **

The beast lifted him up. Dyre's limbs flopped. The creature carried him to the hole he'd made in the world. The darkness swam up to greet them, chewing delicately at the creature's feet. They began to sink.

No, Draco wailed. He found no support in his limbs, no strength in his mouth. He railed against his weakness but only pain greeted him.

He promised, he cried.

Dyre moved. He pushed against the creature's chest, only enough to resist if not to fight. Draco watched him with pity and anger.

The demon paused, and for a moment Draco wanted to crow in triumph. Then, it shimmered and transformed.

Dark became pale. It shortened, shoulders retracting, arms and limbs shrinking. Hair sprouted from its scalp in a crest of gold, and the body that emerged was intimately familiar.

Draco gaped. The copy was exact, down to the way he slicked his hair and the type of shoes he wore. The demon smiled and flicked hair out of his face with his chin.

"Dyre," he said in Draco's voice. "Dyre, come with me."

"Dyre!" Draco shouted, only it came like a croak. He coughed, burying his face in dirt.

"Dyre," it drawled lovingly. "We can be together forever. Just the two of us. And you can love me forever."

A slow, faint laugh grew and drifted over the gore-filled pitch. Dyre's face was much too pale, and green, the dark circles beneath his eyes worlds and worlds and worlds. He managed a broken smile on bloody lips, looking up at the demon with hooded lids.

"Draco…" he croaked, "is prettier than you."

Shock then fury erupted on the saint's face. Darkness flashed through the skin of the Draco's face. They were close to the hole now, and the demon fell over him with a snarl. It landed with a splash.

Dyre fell and the hole closed. He landed on the ground with a groan, making faint sounds that might have been curses if he weren't so exhausted.

Draco smiled around tears, the relief in his chest begging a different hole. It was over. The Death Eaters were gone. Voldemort was gone. Whatever the hell that thing was was gone. And Dyre was alive.

He sighed and waited.

And waited.

He raised his head. Lily Potter was yanking at the chains holding with enough force to throw out her arms. She screamed and ranted, but no matter how the earth gave, the chain extended deeper. Realization came over him. Dyre was free, but they could not reach him. None of them.

Draco winced and tried to get up. His muscles collapsed beneath him. That much exertion had him sweating bullets, limbs and lungs full of pain.

It was ridiculous, inconceivable, that the terror was over and he was still unable to move, unable to save the boy that had sacrificed all measure of control and power and honor to save them.

"Draco," his father called.

He looked up and didn't understand the expression on his face, full of pity. He had no allies. Victor, Hermione, and Sirius were unconscious. Remus was lost to his wolf, foam leaking from his snarls as he attacked his legs. His mother and Severus looked just as scared and battleworn but unharmed. James and Lily both were fighting the same fruitless battle as him.

Dumbledore wasn't moving, eyes for Dyre alone.

He jerked, almost pissing himself, when something touched his arm. Belated, Draco realized that it was Cetis, emerging from his hiding spot.

"Draco!" his father, mother and Severus all seemed to scream once.

"N-no," he stammered. "It's just… it's just Cetis."

"Cetis?" Dumbledore whispered, looking up.

Draco frowned. Something was wrong. The glass wyvern tried to pump its wings and failed. It sagged against his arm, and Draco realized that it was more than just cool. It was cold. It was losing patches of warmth. The blue flame sputtered small inside it.

"It's dying," he whispered. "_No!_" he shouted. "No, it's dying! Dyre! Don't you dare! You can't die! You promised! _You promised!_"

o.O.o

It was cold. The dark moved in and out above him. He felt like had been captive inside diamond, and he couldn't feel anything.

He knew his body was destroyed, his magic gone. Humans weren't meant to house gods. So much power, this world had lost the will for such magic long, long ago.

He'd done everything like he was meant to. Voldemort was banished, and the last of such maddening power was leaving the mortal realm. There was nothing more he was meant to do.

Life was leaving him. He was supposed to die now too. He could feel the Eye sinking, returning to the Well, and the last of his life was dissolving. A fading curse.

_The dead do not walk among the living._

Harry died fifteen years ago. He'd been living on magic and Fate, and when that left, what remained but a corpse?

He didn't believe that though. No. He'd built a new soul. With the Maiden and Yrsa and Draco. He was sure.

Black magic, which had saturated the ley lines, thinned. In a few weeks, the balance would be restored.

It was over. He was free.

He was dying.

He hung to his breaths. He didn't have the strength left to free the prisoners. He tried, climbing once to his knees. The scars on his back lifted, like peeling paint, and flew away. He gasped, the last his immortal strength gone, and fell back on his belly.

The blackness beat against him like great wings. They were so large and heavy.

He had built his own soul. He had been given a new name. He wouldn't die.

It was funny, he thought. The spells binding the prisoners were tied to him. If he died, they'd be free, but what use would that give him.

He sighed, wishing dying wasn't such a bothersome affair.

He felt it when it came, the last of the Norns' truths. Something lovely white touched him. He recognized it. Smiling, he let himself be taken away, the last of him sundered. He drifted and split, like a string.

And Dyre was gone.

o.O.o

Leagues away, Morgan bid farewell to the boy he had only briefly known.


	29. Small Hands

_(i do not know what it is about you that closes_

_and opens; only something in me understands_

_the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)_

_nobody, not even the rain, had such small hands._

~ "somewhere i have never traveled" by e.e. cummings

Dyre was dead. Draco stood at the bedside, watching that cold fix. There had once been a story. Of a maiden who swallowed poisoned fruit. She too had lain like this, but the breath of life had not been far from her lips. She'd rested in glass, fragile and cool as ice, and Dyre looked very much like her. He too did not decay, preserved by those same mysterious forces that made time seem simple.

It was not. Nothing was simple. Not death. Not life. And not love.

It was almost three years since the end of the Tournament. Not after begging, after raging, after sitting each day in that uncomfortable chair and telling him how lonely he was had Dyre returned. Not after three years.

They never quite made the move to St. Mungos, never quite admitted that it might be permanent, even after three god damn years. After so long, he wondered why they couldn't just surrender to the fact the Dyre was never going to wake up.

When Draco graduated, there was a moment when he stood at Dyre's bedside and debated about whether he'd ever come back. (_He'd been abandoned first_, his heart screamed.) He stood until his legs ached and even after that, forestalling the decision in a stupid contest between his muscles and the floor. Just a little longer, he thought. When ten minutes turned into two hours into a night, he forgot for a moment why he was there, what he was there to do. And he wondered at the pain in his feet and cursed himself the fool for fighting for something useless.

The next day, he pretended it hadn't happened and went to his father's side, mockingly re-memorizing the role of a son. He lasted not even the week, crawling back over that stone with promises of desertion. (_It's just for closure_, he lied.) Dyre didn't even know he'd gone. And he cried and cursed him and made more promises he didn't keep. He always came back. Even when he promised he wouldn't because he promised he would.

The wyvern stayed on his nightstand, and he looked at it every night before he went to sleep, telling himself that he kept it because it was pretty, not because he thought the light would return.

Merlin, he was _such_ a _liar_. Such a stupid liar.

If he sat still for long enough, he still cried. He felt phantom hands, and even though he knew he was driving himself insane, he didn't know how to stop. There was a mask as cold as Snow White's death over his features, that let him survive the freezing abyss in his chest. That too he didn't understand, couldn't contemplate in fear of drowning.

Dumbledore came to him with the name Gellart and wasn't that a story? He was angry that Dumbledore could even pretend to understand what he felt, angry that no one seemed to understand, and even angrier when they tried. But the rage skimmed inside his cool mask, met against oil, and fell. He'd screamed, and it left him with only broken things.

So what that he existed in a shell, forever waiting for something he didn't even elieve in? He was his father's heir. He made most the right moves, let the old mothers with winking daughters fawn over him like fresh mackerel, and if he lacked passion, what did he care? If he married them, what did it matter? His father's office was flooded with proposals, with their rosy faces and shackled ambitions. What did he care? They should be lucky he was moving at all, not when it was such a fucking _chore_ to rise in the morning and to sink into bed at night.

What did he care?

On his good days, Draco imagined Dyre's body disappearing. He imagined everything just _stopping_ and that he never had to worry about any of this again. On his bad days, he imagined him waking up. Those were days when the hole in his chest tried to kill him, when everything he touched reminded him of things that weren't there and he couldn't breathe without an echo.

When he'd whisper dreams and pretend that his limbs were slowly falling off, one by one by one_._

o.O.o

April fifth, Lily did not hold classes. She spent the day in the infirmary. And she carried flowers.

She didn't know why. She associated bringing flowers to two things, James and funerals. Neither were adequate here, so she didn't know what purpose they served. But each year, they were here with her, always beautiful and always white. Last year, it was orchids, the year before lilies. This year, it was roses.

She didn't plant them in the vase, the one small touch of homeliness persistent through the years. (_Temporary, it was just temporary_, she reminded herself.) Usually, marigolds sat in the urn, or daisies or some bright flower that Lily never cared to ask who delivered. Dumbledore and Sirius were the only ones left with such sentimentality, and only Dumbledore would actually pick something so lively and bright. Her own somber, elegant things rested in her lap. She carried them in and she left with them, never able to lay them down.

Alice gave her son candy wrappers. Maybe her madness included flowers.

Lily wasn't sure if he was soulless. No spell had touched him, and God, had they tried. Even Kissed men, staring hollowly out at the world, had more function than Dyre. She wondered if she could do this for ten years, fourteen years, twenty?

When dusk began to descend, she tried to touch his cheek and could never quite manage. She left, trailing the aroma of roses, now wilted though not yet brown.

She was invisible while she walked, some form of magic or maybe she was just a ghost. She opened her quarters and threw the roses in the bin, willing to let the sick of decay overcome the beauty, thinking of both Harry and Dyre and the men they couldn't be. Faintly, she wondered what James was doing.

She was sure that she still loved him and he her, in his own way, but the soft, insistent burning that had grown between them, that had filled the cavern of her breast, making dances and candlelight and pleasure, wasn't there anymore. Stale. It had been a struggle to keep the marriage after Halloween in 1981, years of personal, little betrayals and finally the understanding that they alone were the only ones who understood this angry pain.

This was too much. They never spoke of divorce, and even now, Lily wore the same ring on her finger, sparkling in the firelight while she coaxed bourbon down the back of her throat. But James was in Malfoy manor, attending his lord, and Lily was here, and that was the way it was.

In her youth, she had never considered being with someone work, or a responsibility. She could look back now and think that she was foolish and understand why now she just didn't have the effort to be anything other than alone.

On this one night, three years decayed, she allowed herself to cry. This was the first year though that she didn't feel the violence of it. It came silent as a single flame, a surprise when her nose started to turn stuffy. She didn't know if that was a relief. Shouldn't she rave? Shouldn't she rage and curse the world and demand things that she knew no one would grant her? For so long she'd been in this deplorable place, and she didn't know if she'd fallen so deeply now that she was numb to it, or if this was some horrible ploy for acceptance.

She almost threw the bottle against the wall but decided she didn't have the energy for that either. She stripped out of her robes and climbed into her nightclothes. The bed was smooth and cool, like a gentle sea, and she succumbed to it. She cried herself to sleep, holding her barren belly, with the taste of alcohol still clinging to her tongue.

o.O.o

She wasn't where she was supposed to be. Lily remembered falling to bed. She remembered bourbon and barrenness and roses, but she wasn't in her chambers. Stone cooled her feet, and a draft folded into her arms. Blearily, she realized that she wasn't dreaming.

She was in the castle. She was walking the castle in her nightclothes. Even while part of her realized that this was strange, that it was cold and she hadn't grabbed a stole much less a robe, she didn't stop. It was drizzling. She felt it in damp goosebumps against her flesh and the tips of her toes. She stepped into the night, the difference of stone and grass wakening her a little more.

The rain was drifting, a mist too fine to see in the dark. Just as she began to fear tripping, wondering what the hell she was doing, torches rose. There was a procession of orange flame, hissing quietly in the wet.

Mystified, she went. There was a small sense of wonder, one that had never died since she was a small girl and learning that magic ("Like fairies and leprechauns and dragons?") was real. For a moment, the world dropped away, and she was a girl again. She was big-small, and the world was small-big, and there was nothing she couldn't do. She was in a land of mist and night, and the fire was a comfort, winking secrets that Lily yearned to keep.

All too soon though, she realized where she was. The ground was still desolate, starved of green. The place where Voldemort had used her boy to summoned that demon. There were places with more bloodshed, places of terrible deeds and evil, but to Lily, this would always be the worst.

She had always avoided this place. Dumbledore had quarantined it, for practical reasons as well as personal. Something horrible resided in the earth. A force of destruction had been summoned, and though not released, it had fallen with great terror. Had Dumbledore not been so humble, it would have done much worse.

Now along the parched dusty soil, there was a creature as resilient to spells as the Hel saint. At the place where Dyre had opened a hole in the world, grew a plant, looming in the way of stooped hags with knowing eyes and greedy claws.

Lily called it a plant only because it had leaves and flora, but she always considered it more of a creature. In the light of the torches, she saw the black tendrils, thorny roots that slithered along the ground like tentacles. From the flesh, thickened, came a great bush like a heart.

Even as terrifying as the thing was, Lily could not deny that it was beautiful. The buds puckered like tiny mouths out of the fauna. Lily had never seen them flower.

She did now.

The petals burst, revealing a meaty center that glistened. They were unexpectedly fat, the pistil swollen and the stamen long as dragon tongues.

There was something sinister about them, something that begged along the hairs on her arms. Then, revealed by the torches, she realized what glistened was blood.

She swallowed, stepping back through the row of firelight. Even that was lush and lustrous. She wondered if she were to cut into the roots if she'd find blood there too. She didn't doubt it, but she wasn't sure she could stomach it.

"Lily?"

Across the way was her husband, her James. He looked as pale and frightful as she felt. He was much more properly attired, though disheveled, and she knew the difference in his hair that meant he'd been running his hands through it and the unkempt appearance that told her of sleepless nights and his choice poison of whiskey.

He looked utterly lost, gazing at her from over the cruel beauty of the harbinger. His glasses were misted, she noted absently.

"What are we doing here?"

She shook her head and noticed that all of her hair carried droplets as well, which for a moment almost drove her insane, thinking it too was blood. She was suddenly glad he was there. That she wasn't alone.

The plant seemed to stretch taut then sigh, and Lily thought the movement reminded her of someone waking from a nap.

"Through the eye of god, we see no evil."

She shuddered. Lily didn't know the voice, but she felt it run through her like an old nursery rhyme. She grabbed her shoulders, shivering.

"It is but a veil of truths," started another.

"We seek the all-seeing," mote the last.

They came as one but from different corners, meeting from the darkness into the light of the plant. The old crone with her rheumy eyes had changed none, but the girl and mother, who years ago had somewhat resembled Dyre, now looked more like her. Wyrd had the short red hair and freckles of her youth, even if the length of her body and its pallor was wrong. Ver∂andi too had red hair that shone copper. Lily had only ever been that plump once, in pregnancy, and her hair had never fallen in froths like that. A wet, distended glint of her smile that did not match Lily's at all.

The rage exploded before she even thought.

"What do you want? What can you possibly want?" she screamed, grabbing her hair. "You took my baby from me! What could you possibly want now, you filthy hags!"

They gazed back serenely both with and without eyes. Lily's chest split open, full of sobs and whimpers she wished she could pretend were not real.

"They came to give him back."

This voice she knew. Dumbledore, who stood at the edge of the torch's light, looked like he'd come the normal route through the castle. There was a small ward to keep the rain from him, but he walked with the heaviness of weight not his own. Dumbledore had always been ancient, but only after Dyre had he become old.

"What?" she stuttered, glancing back and forth between the two, still stained with tears.

James remained on the other side of the circle, swallowing. His eyes were both dark and bright, half-mad with liquor.

"I always wondered, Lily," Dumbledore said softly, stepping beside her. "I woke every morning for this night," he confessed so quietly she almost couldn't hear. He looked up. "They've come because Dyre has paid the price." He looked to her when she still did not understand. "It has been three years."

Something clicked like a fallen brick into an old wall. A memory, the Three again, dancing in a circle of salt, a rhyme and a prophecy she'd lost in the pain of grief.

She grabbed her chest, fisting where the gown clumped.

"I can have him back?"

Dumbledore looked at her, a look of compassion mixed with pain, but he did not answer, turning instead to the Three. They gazed back, corporeal as mist. Helpless, Lily turned to them too.

"Dyre Durmstrang died," Wryd said in a soft, lovely voice. She looked at her with the hollow vessels of her eyes. "One to die, so the other may live."

"But they both died," she cried again, tearing her lip with her nails.

Ver∂andi gave her a smile at once tender and malicious. The other two shared a look, undecipherable before seeming to surrender something beyond their understanding.

"Ask," the girl said.

Lily panicked, so terrified of making a mistake she couldn't speak. James looked much the same. Mercifully, Dumbledore set a hand on her shoulder.

"What do we need, to have that child returned to us?"

"The three," the crone said. "The body, the soul, and the spirit. Only the three can return that child to you."

He nodded. "How do we find the spirit?"

Ver∂andi stared passed them, with eyes that seemed bloated on rot. Her lips made the movement of a snake. When Lily turned, she saw a pale Draco Malfoy peeling away from the column. If he, like she, had been called, she did not know. If he'd followed James from the manor or her from the school, or even Dumbledore. He approached, looking like he was going to throw up.

Ver∂andi lifted her arm, stretching out one black-tinted finger. "He will know the way."

Draco looked more confused and lost than Lily, shaking his head in disbelief, but the Norns said no more. After a longer moment, Dumbledore nodded.

"And the soul?"

"That, we have kept," Skuld said, jowls wobbling with her jaw.

"I will pay the way," Dumbledore said almost immediately. He stepped forward.

Wyrd held her hand. "It was that child's wish. At the end of his payment, to be returned to you. He made this child," she said, brushing a petal. "Should you chose to follow."

"Then, the payment for answers..." he drifted off as Wyrd continued to shake her head.

"That too was paid," Skuld said, looking further into the distance of the scorched ground. "By that child."

Lily was no longer sure who they were talking about as the three grew silent. She wanted to get this over with. She didn't care anymore what old gods or old hags said. She wanted her baby.

Skuld gave her look, and if Lily wasn't sure, there might have been an eyebrow raised on her ruined face.

Wyrd plucked the blossom curled in her hand with a pinch of nail. The plant gave a small cry, like that of a babe, shrinking in on itself. The girl pranced and delivered the flower, strange and beautiful, to her sister, the crone.

Silently, she offered the young bud to Lily.

Anticipation. Fear. At a distance, the Norns were strange, old fables halfway brought to life, but up close, they were terrifying. She took a breath and broached the distance, feeling horribly alone even with Dumbledore behind her and James coming to join him. Draco shivered, alone even beside them.

Finally, she was able to pluck the flower. It was so warm. Unexpectedly so. Soft with new life. She gazed down at it in awe, suddenly horrified at the prospect of eating it. It seemed like no more than a small child.

Blood shone in its pearly center, dripping down the stamens. There was a flutter like a pulse against her fingers.

"Life is sacrifice," Ver∂andi said, though her mouth seemed connected to all three.

Lily looked at her and gasped. She wondered how she could have ever thought that the goddess was crude. Her swollen eyes were filled with potency and she could see herself, cringing when she lost her virginity, smiling at she mounted her husband, screaming when he thrust into her backside. She could smell the wetness of sex. It was wrapped in Ver∂andi's hair, the veins in her wrists. For a moment, Lily even smelled the terrifying scent of Harry's birthing, brutal and mysterious.

But there was love as much as there was desire, a mother's love as much as a wife's.

There was greatness in all of the three, making Lily feel so pathetically human. They could do unimaginable harm, but there was understanding, pain and pleasure and horrible and wonderful things.

The goddess gave her a slick smile, and Lily knew that she found beauty in everything - the depraved, the ugly, the weak, monsters and mothers alike. It was a terrible thought. Like the love of a rapist.

She looked down at her small, fat flower. It was her choice. Never before would she have thought to weigh the life of a flower against that of her son, but holding it in her hand, she couldn't help but find herself evil.

She slipped it into her mouth. It screamed quietly as she chewed, and she felt tears running down her face. It had the simple taste of fresh blood but that only made it worse. This was what it felt, she decided, to be a monster.

"Only you can retrieve him," Ver∂andi told her, touching her arms. It was like being touched by the walls of a womb. She swayed in their hold, dizzy.

"The way was not meant for the living to pass," Wyrd said, coming to her side. "Do not stray, little mother."

"Why?" she whispered, about all things.

They did not answer.

The earth trembled. The plant, the wicked thing that she had feared and hated and briefly loved, withered. It keened as it died, and Lily imagined that it too begged to be saved. It sunk into the ground, a short, brittle, black weed, and when it made its last appeal, it cracked and sundered onto ash.

Lily could still taste the ripe blood of the flower. On her hands and knees, she brushed away the burned skeleton and dug. This ground alone was soft with death, moving with her touch in richness. At last, her fingers felt wood. It was odd, smooth and molded, and after she cleared the soot and debris, she found a door. It was small, the same size as the plant, with tarnished brass handles.

For all the world, it looked like the door to a cupboard.

Lily stared at it, wondering if she could get through at all.

A woman, she didn't know who, perhaps her own mother, hummed in her ear. She opened the door into black.

"Bring him back, Lily," James whispered.

Into the moaning, on the wet night of April fifth, Lily climbed through the door to Hel.


	30. The Start of the Middle

_Heroes know that things must happen when it is time for them to happen. A quest may not simply be abandoned; unicorns may go unrescued for a long time, but not forever; a happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story._

~ The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle

Dirt crunched beneath her feet. They exploded in dry clusters, stones pricking the bottom of her soles, but she continued. Her body felt heavy. She wasn't sure why she was walking. Something stirred the back of her mind, through the red dust of dunes, impelling her to move. She remembered nothing but the darkness of the land and that one remaining faith.

The wind was dead. What moved her hair came from beneath her, sand in her skin. She was parched, belly-sick, and weary with no rest. Lids hooded, the heat of the ground was the only thing that moved here, other than her. She'd passed dunes that became canyons that became adobe that became cities and not seen a single soul. No so much as a bird or an insect.

The dryness carried itself down the back of her throat, into her eyelids, into her shoulders. The sky was red, always red. It was skin. The skin of this endless country without eye, stretched and stretching. Shadows slanted the buildings, or maybe the shadows were buildings and the broken teeth of glass and metal she saw were the edges of crooked glass. Distorted mirrors.

She dragged her feet, popping blisters. A trail of blood followed her.

The path that carried her might have been straight, but she wasn't sure. She didn't think it existed in a place that could call things straight. Some distant part of her that remembered truths but not why they were truth knew that dunes could not become the slack-jawed skyscrapers, knew that lands were not desolate like this. But the part of her that lived, embroiled on cracking dust and the scalped remains of a dead sun's light, did not care about a lost society's reality. She had been walking, in a place where time did not exist, on a road that went backwards and upwards and forwards and downwards all at once. It did not matter that she could not stop, that she wasn't really moving at all.

This was the world. Everything was ghost.

The city, with its gutted cars and tilting telephone poles, slid into suburbia. Another evolution she didn't stop to understand. The towers twisted to houses, beneath the browning light. The ground had grown up around them. Stumps, the roofs sliding off to expose the organs of faded furniture. Echoes of the dust they had come from, that they were becoming, was in each dulled and drooping window, the frames of their doors. Death hung over every hearth.

Something pricked the back of her mind, like a needle to a blister. An old memory surfaced. And she realized that she knew this place. Before oblivion. (God, if there was even such a thing.)

The streets were shadows of another. The lampposts. The mailboxes. It was Godric's Hollow.

Long past her time, she thought. She didn't understand. This was centuries later. It had to be. The death of the world. But here was her old village. The rows of houses she knew so well. The weathervane that old Mr. Thompson refused to take down despite his wife's hatred of the thing. The Godlebee's cadillac. It was too familiar. Too different. She didn't understand.

Breathing fast, she turned, and there was the old home. The one that had been sucked through a void. Board by board, by the stones in the foundation, she'd seen that house deconstructed and disappear. It sat at the end of the road, like it had been dropped there by a bored toddler.

She ran, her feet matted by scabs above scabs, iced with dust. The door was open, tilted on rusty hinges. The front steps creaked beneath her weight. Lily searched the hall, not even sure what she expected to find. The interior was spared the red dust of the land, the picture frames faded but untouched. It was so quiet. Lily held her arms. Empty. Dead.

Tears pricked her eyes. They overwhelmed her. Her breath came in a rattle, and she almost lost everything. Something. Something warm and wet, like small hands, stoked inside her, and she was able to calm herself. She wiped her face and sniffled. Not knowing why anymore than why she walked or why she was here, she climbed the stairs.

Dust coated her hands, the simple grey dust of disuse. The landing had four doors, all closed except for one. It was a crack, faint light. Lily inched forward, not sure why, not at all sure why her chest was tight, that the lids of her eyes (so heavy with old tears and older dust) were wide. As she crept forward, her hand reached and pushed open the door.

It was a nursery. Color that might once have been blue. The crib was tipped over, but otherwise the room was serene. Lily stepped inside. There were clues of an old life - toys, pictures made with cracked paint - all covered in a layer of dust, faded from light that might have existed a thousand years ago.

Lily knelt on the floor. A blanket had spilled from the crib, crumpled on the floor. And slowly, she pulled it.

Her breath came and went through her lungs like great stampedes, filling caverns with tornadoes. And still it did not relieve.

A boy, calcified. A perfectly preserved mummy. He could be sleeping. Trembling, Lily could not look away, could not dare touch him. Finally, finallyfinallyfinally, her hand reached, almost without consent, and touched his head. His hair parted for her, soft as down. She patted it down again, touching his cheek. It was still and cold. He was so perfect she could count the lashes in his eyes. Lily gathered him up.

He didn't move. Lily took the child's limbs and tucked them against her waist, pulling him up like a sack. Glancing over her shoulder, she stole him from the stillness, running back down the stairs.

Darkness flared in the corners of her sight. She was sure it hadn't been there before. She broke though the door. Looking up, she knew something was different. The whole trek, she'd been terribly, terribly alone, the one inhabitant of a dead world. Now, she felt it, something coming. Moving on its belly over the shred civilizations. Towards her. Towards her.

Following the footprints she'd left behind, Lily took one step. And another. The child felt like a stone. Her hips felt brittle, her arms sagging. What an age was she? Was she old? Was she grey and whittled, bleached bone tugged the last of her petrified baby across the land. And the thing that rode her trail, licking up the scabs broken from her feet, she could only feel a fear of it. The future was stark and bitter before her. Lily retraced her footsteps and undid the spool. All her centuries unraveled before her, unmade with her burden. She swallowed the dryness and marched, the sounds of her bones knocking together a macabre worker's song.

To come so far. She had memories of mountains, of civilizations built and collapsed in the breath of her walking. She held the child. Time passed in whorls. The cities, the houses, the adobes, the rocks, the sand - all one long blur, a monster coming behind her. Closer.

No direction but a trail of blood. And she prayed and hoped and prayed, without even understanding what it meant to do so.

The blood began to thin. The beginning of the journey she taken lifetimes ago. At the last of the blood, Lily begged to stop. So heavy. Everything. But her legs no longer knew how to stop. They knew nothing but the repetitive motions of her shuffle through the sand. So she continued, moving her mouth around a sound she didn't know was bubbling anxiously from her chest.

When she was nothing but a needle, tied together on grains of sand, the word came through the spindle.

"Shames. Shames," she whistled, dragging the boulder through the sand. "James."

Like a pinprick of light, something snagged in her soul. Something narrowed and focused and the whittled-woman wavered. Like a splitting dream, something returned. A grail filled.

"James," she said, just to hear the sound, a bell knocking inside her ribs. The toll struck louder, and she remembered that she was a woman, a human.

"James!"

The trunks of her feet, no longer even meat, pounded. The feeling traveled up her legs into her hips and pooled in her belly. And she remembered what a woman was, that there was no end of the world.

"JAMES!" she screamed, hugging her burden close.

Sound echoed around her. Bouncing off and back to her, Lily became Lily, and she searched for the door. She hobbled on the stubs of her feet, holding out her son.

"JAMES. MY JAMES!"

A hand reached out. It came through nothing to her. Wide-spread and asking. For a second, she knew, with no doubt or suggestion, that it was God.

She held out her boy, reaching on the edge of her mangled feet. The serpent was behind her. She could feel it opening its maw. Nothing but darkness, down down down.

The hand took her son. Relief flooded Lily. So weary, she started to drift down. She started to fall, eyes closing in surrender, before the hand snatched back at her. It fumbled incoherently, frantic and mad for her face. More annoyed than awed, she made to bat it away. Instead, the fingers sank into her skin, sweaty and violent. A taste of humanity she had forgotten.

James. No god. But James.

She dangled in her husband's grip, no strength left in her limbs to boost her up. Dizzy and failing, Lily saw another hand enter Hell, groping her shoulder. The arms stretched until James' torso threatened to come through the barrier.

The mouth coming around her shoulders, James gave a mighty pull and yanked Lily off the ground. He pulled her up. The door shut on her ankles

They tumbled backwards onto the ground. Lily stared at the grass. She'd forgotten that color. She'd forgotten anything but sand. Her fingers stretched on ground, cool and full of dew. The body beneath her groaned, hands around her waist. There was another, a boy, legs trapped beneath her husband. His dizzy face, pale and shocked.

James pulled her back, even as she scrambled, reaching for that green, and cried out when he saw her face. She imagined she'd gotten old. There was no counting the time she'd spent in the world below. Lily sat up.

"Your feet," James cried.

For the first time in a millennium, she looked down at herself. Her ankles ended at a nub of red and black, crusted over and worn to the quick. There were no feet. She couldn't feel them. They were only slabs of ground, calcified meat.

"Where's my baby?" she asked, looking to James.

The man's eyes were full of tears, biting his hand trying to control himself. He looked up at her, crows nesting in the corners of his eyes, and slid his gaze to Dumbledore.

The sleeping boy. She'd thought him a baby, but returning to sanity, she saw now that he was a toddler. Four or five. Resting peacefully in the crook of Dumbledore's arm. His nakedness was swaddled in the headmaster's cloak. He was almost pure. There were no signs that he'd been kidnapped and stolen from Hell. He had a baby's porcelain skin, hair far darker than any English child, shining blue in the light from the sconces.

James stood. When Lily tried to as well, he made a horrible noise and lifted her up instead. She would have cared before... Before. Now, she was ambivalent. What was lying in someone's arms when you'd seen the world degrade into nothing. James followed her reaching hand, took her close to the boy. She swept her fingers through his hair again.

With great certainty, she knew that this boy was going to die. Everything great and small perished. But it would not be before his time. What purposes her poor child had to fulfill were fulfilled. No Fate. No immortal to call him up for war. The extraordinary was finished with him. He could live any manner of life he chose.

Lily smiled. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. Something inside her - whittled to the bone - was pleased, at last could rest.

o.O.o

"So this is him?"

Lily hobbled to the bedside. She walked with crutches, still not used to the spells that would allow her to float her weight across the room like a ghost. She leaned over the bed. The boy Lily had pulled from Hel was napping against Dyre's body. He'd awoken to no stimulus, his only movement to wrap himself around his body.

She could not blame Sirius' disbelief. The child was ephemeral. There was a glow in his features, unnoticeable except when the lights were dowsed. It was a reflection of light, like the moon, coming from a source they could not see. There was a peacefulness on his face, the kind of sereneness when you thought time didn't matter anymore. That and only that proclaimed him a piece of soul.

Remus sat on a chair across the bed, staring at the two, elbows on his knees, hands covering his mouth.

"Only part," she said. Sirius' gaze, without his consent, traveled to her face and glanced back down again quickly.

Lily's feet were not the only thing scarred. She hadn't felt any of it, but her tears must have created tracks in her face. She looked more like a monster than a woman now, but like a great deal else since she'd returned, she found such things moot. The ravines in her face were not so different than the scar Dyre once wore on his back. She didn't mind the resemblance, bearing only a fraction of what her son had. She felt like she'd worn her tears' scars for over a decade. It almost felt like a relief to have them open to the world now.

Severus hissed between his teeth, glaring at Sirius with the heat of a forge. He had taken her scars almost as hard as James, vowing to find some manner of potion to heal her. Rather than argue, Sirius looked away shamefully.

Lily looked at him. "Do you think they're disgusting?" she asked softly.

He puffed his chest and vowed wholeheartedly that he didn't, not understanding that she teased until she started to laugh.

"Oh, Padfoot," she said, touching his cheek while she balanced on one crutch. "It's just flesh. It rots like everything else," she said bored, turning away to look at her prone son. She sat on the bed, removing her crutches, and brushed his bangs, revealing the smoothness over his right eye. She cried for centuries to get these, while his had been thrust upon him.

It had been a week since she'd traveled Below. A week had healed most the insanity, but she thought she'd never be quite human again. She couldn't think the same way. Even now, she was sort of proud that she'd marred herself so in a way no mage could cure. For her little time in this universe as a single being, she'd made something that would last.

She hummed gently, sorting her son's bangs, while the men exchanged uneasy eyes over her.

They convened later that evening, without Lily, to discuss their next course of action. In possession of the body and the soul, they needed only the spirit to revive him, but not everyone was sure he could be revived even then. The soul had been taken from Hades. Did even of them even know if it was Dyre? Or if it was some changeling monster, another ploy of the Norns to unleash havoc on the world? They raged back and forth.

Draco sat apart. He'd climbed up in the casement, crammed against the window, and refused to look down. It had grown dark. There were fireflies on the ground, nipped and gobbled by some lucky beasts. He watched the light appear and disappear.

What he thought of all this, he didn't know. He felt dead. He didn't really have any hope that Dyre would return, no matter what they said. No matter watching Lily emerge from that hellhole, scarred and bleeding and grey. He wasn't even sure he wanted him back after so long. It just all seemed to complicated.

_He will know the way._

Bugger all. He didn't know shite. This wasn't his fault. He hadn't been the one who _lied_. He didn't know anything. Anything at all.

His knee knocked the window. These things were usually locked but the hinge came loose. The frame opened, spilling in the night air. Draco moved to shut it. He'd rather not draw their attention away from the scrabble below. When his fingers touched the iron, something white fluttered.

Standing on the eave was a raven. A white raven. It was small, with pink in its beak and legs. Against the dark of the night, it stood out like a beacon. Draco stared. It cleaned beneath its wing.

It looked at Draco, just once. Then, it hopped on the sill and dove. It gained altitude and rode the night, carried away from Draco to the north. Shell-shocked, Draco could only sit there, hand still on the window's lock.

"Draco?" his mother called from below.

She seemed alarmed that her son was dangling halfway out the window, and she'd attracted most the attention he'd wanted to avoid a moment before. Draco looked at her, still stunned by his revelation.

"I know where he is."

"What?" she said, moving as if to magic him down.

Draco left the window open. He looked down from his height, leaning over the wall. "I know where he is," he said, near giddy and somewhat solemn at the same time. "I know where Dyre is."


	31. Where the Shadow Falls

_Between the desire and the spasm, between the potency and the existence, between the essence and the descent, falls the shadow. This is the way the world ends._

~ T. S. Eliot

Draco stood at the helm, watching land come into sight. The boat rocked, waves jumping alongside like eager dogs. Not so long ago, even the thought of traveling alone (to a foreign country to boot) would have galled and intimidated him. Now, he was so preoccupied, it just seemed too taxing to worry about something so small.

Lily had journeyed through Hell. Draco needed only travel through land and sea. The weather for the trip had been mostly calm, the wind accommodating him north, and Draco had spent most his time on the starboard side of deck, keeping out of the way of the crew. The sea was beautiful, full of color he'd never known existed. There had even been a herd of dolphins that swam, leaping playfully, alongside them. The ship plowed and planted over the cant of waves like a woman's undulating hips, and despite himself, Draco found himself faintly enthralled.

At night, the blanket of sky unfurled uninterrupted. All his life, he'd kept to the city and country. There had always been something reaching up, trying the tempting taste of the stars. He'd never thought that the sky could be so long. He felt as if he was inside a glass dome, that some grand and terrible giant was staring down at him from it. It was a cold feeling. Though he tried to conjure up feelings of resentment to such a crude reckoning, he could not, as if the part of him that stored indignation was numbed.

Altogether, the trek only took three days. He reached port and slipped off the ship without notice. There was a beacon in his chest, leading him on. Struggling a few times with pantomime and fuzzy translation charms, he managed to purchase a carriage ride. He left the window open, watching the mountains.

This was Dyre's homeland. As much as he'd been born in England, Draco knew this was the country he loved. There was beauty here, the language had a lilting enchantment, the land striking, and Draco only thought that Dyre should have been the one to show him. They took a meandering road, soon passing from hillocks into steeper terrain. The driver stopped where the road had narrowed to a pinch.

Between two sentries, the gates to Durmstrang were tall and strong. The panels were well-tended, emblazoned with the sagas of their country. Naval battles, wars between dark elves, between magic-holders and kings, all in a blaze of glory. Draco laid his hand on the unmoving wood. How often had Dyre come through these? How often had he looked at these pictures and dreamed of becoming a warrior?

With the carriage jumping down the craggy road, Draco turned back to the mountain. Of course, these gates were for show. A young student in a grey uniform appeared as if from the side of the mountain, beckoning him to follow. He lead him through a much smaller, well-used door into the compound.

It was not a monolith like Hogwarts. There were many halls spread along the fortification, creating a militant-like milieu of practices and drills, but the central structure was still a castle, hewn into the mountain. It looked older than Hogwarts, though less ornate. Stolid. Enduring.

Hámundur Diðriksson was a smaller man of greater reserve than his predecessor. He'd taken charge of the school's maintenance after Karkaroff. Draco had never had reason to meet him. He was a staunch, paunchy man, the acumen behind his eyes less violent and more cunning than Karkaroff. Once the student was dismissed, Draco bowed.

"Thank you for accommodating me. It was short notice, and for that I apologize."

Diðriksson sat back down, out from behind his desk to engage Draco over a short table. Draco took a seat.

"Your matter is urgent," he said, offering a cup of ale. He sat down. "I know you."

Draco paused from drinking. "What do you mean?"

"You laid with the cursed one," Master Diðriksson said, swirling his cup. He took a drink.

Draco looked down, thinking. In the end, he he found no defense, no insult. He nodded. "I did."

Diðriksson gave him a long, dark look before speaking again, the moment passing. "So, what does a young English lord want of Durmstrang?"

"Of The Tower, Lord Diðriksson."

The headmaster's motions stopped. "That is not my influence."

Draco bowed his head. "I know. But I believe it has something to give me."

Diðriksson's stare was no less intense and unreadable. Draco did not look away.

"Já, you have the look about you," he said at last, leaning away resignedly. He tapped his belly. "Not men's magic."

"Odin partook of it," Draco said, making the norsemen give him a startled, reassessing look.

"That's the way of gods," he said softly, staring at him. Draco stared back.

"Not men's work," he said after a long minute. "Do what you will."

Draco thanked him and bowed. He felt the northman's eyes on his back all the way through the door. As he stepped from the mountain hold, into the sun, he couldn't help turning his face to the sky. There was something indistinguishable in the difference between here and Scotland. He knew, feeling it, but it was as impossible to articulate as... He opened his eyes. As why he loved Dyre, he supposed.

He tried to compare the boy who had fallen in love with the abused boy aboard the Durmstrang ship with the confused, not-quite man he was today and failed. That boy, his emotions and determination, were so obscure to him now. It felt strange to look back on all of it, feeling so old, when he was only nineteen, when so much still lay ahead. And at the same time, he knew he was still caught in the spiral of the choices he made when he was sixteen. Still on the path he'd chosen when he'd slipped out of the Great Hall, following Karkaroff's beautiful, cursed servant.

_Why am I here? _

He honestly didn't know, yet somehow, even without yet anything to show for his efforts, he was glad that he was in this place. This beautiful, summer-filled land where Dyre had once walked and lived.

A young boy, by his livery not a student, approached him, twelve, certainly not thirteen, biting his lip and wringing his hands. He spoke in Icelandic, a lisp in the gap of his teeth, freckles poured over the bridge of his nose. Draco shook his head to show he didn't understand. The boy narrowed his eyes and pointed up the mountains. Draco followed the line to a pass, wedged between two crags.

Draco turned back to the boy. He nodded. The boy made a jerky motion and ran off. Figuring he'd have to go alone, Draco began to walk. Soon, the sound of ironworks, shouts, and sparring faded. The wind tumbled through the sparse mountain fauna, the walls so close that Draco had to step up the stones to pass. Above, there were lines of pulleys, tedious footholds. A few nimble goats watched him in disinterest, braying and skipping on impossible mountain teeth, disappearing into the crags. A few birds called, desolate sounds that Draco found strangely lovely.

Suddenly, Draco found himself in a descent. Stones skid and slipped beneath him. He made a fastidious journey, studying his feet. The Tower came upon him suddenly, where he thought he'd been feeling the mountain. The beaten, grey stone had little mechanical shape. He suddenly looked up and found himself at the base of a needle, pushed through the earth's fabric as if by the thumb and thimble of god.

He gaped upward into unfathomable height. Nestled in a valley, it could have topped the world. As he stood in silence, stone pressing all sides, Draco thought he heard it hum. He felt along the barrier, searching for an entrance. There were no doors, not even a window to shout up at. His feet were beginning to ache, and he was sure he had not even managed a quarter of the Tower's circumference. There was a narrow path that separated the Tower from the mountains surrounding it, sometimes so close that Draco had to grab croppings of stone to heave himself over. Sometimes the path broadened, as if the mountains managed to undulate around it like a sea. Dirty and sweating, Draco collapsed against the wall, fiddling with his wand, contemplating his own stubbornness.

His back brushing the stone, Draco imagined his cause for coming here. Dyre's spirit, or whatever, floating, or something, behind this wall. It was difficult even to imagine. That behind the jagged rock, poking into his back, there was something like that. He felt too visceral, too _real_, to really understand how something like a soul or spirit could exist.

The motion of the sun told him he'd been walking for hours. Even though he'd followed one route, he was quite sure he was lost. There was no way to remember which of the narrow crevices he'd come through, even if he felt his way back along the wall.

"Is that it, Dyre?" he said quietly, leaning his head back on the stone. "Do you want me to die here?"

He closed his eyes.

Something promptly landed on his foot. Looking down, he was startled to find the raven, the white raven that had catalyzed this tepid adventure, staring at him. He held his breath.

The raven opened its wings, gave him a single, chiding caw, and flew right towards his face. Draco winced, bracing for the creature's claws, but he felt only the sharpness of the bird's primary feathers. It banked, flapping, around the side of the mountain, and pulled up to a stripped ash.

A girl sat in the boughs.

In three years, she'd grown, but Draco knew her. The child they'd left, disappearing in the lake, was a woman.

"Yrsa?" he said incredulously, trying to stand.

She smiled, and it seemed slightly feral. Her hair, unbelievably, was wilder, a cache of nets, strings, and briars. There had been something vulnerable in the girl, an undisturbed youth, a pond waiting for the pluck of a stone. Here, she was potent, face balmy and full. Her eyes no longer looked mortal.

"Draco."

In the word was everything. A statement more than a name, a recognition of everything Draco had tried to hide. He winced, feeling suddenly, horribly _seen_. He'd not sounded the depths of his conscious in three years. Tucked in the darkness, the sudden light burned and peeled.

Her grin stretched, but she blinked, and it seemed as though the focus, the intensity, shifted. Draco was left staggering, breathless. The last time Draco had caught her in a tree, she'd been bare as a bairn. This time at least she wore a dress, a white overdress that reminded Draco of the color of sunning bone, atop another white undergarment. It swayed eldritch in the wind over the branches.

"I am glad to see you, Draco."

Draco shook himself out of his stupor. He stepped forward until he was beneath her. He could barely accept that she was here, this specter of the past grown into... This. Yrsa said nothing as he stared up. Draco grabbed the nearest branch and, ignoring all protest in his legs, climbed upward. Yrsa pressed her lips as if she were smiling, watching his ascent. He plopped down on the boughs beside her, and she tilted her head to the side, to look at him.

Suddenly in reach, Draco didn't know what to do, if he was allowed to touch her. She said nothing. Close, he saw that the blue of her eyes had changed as well, going deeper into dark sapphire.

One hand balanced on a limb, Draco reached towards her face. When she didn't bite, he held his breath and touched her cheek.

She was real. He released his breath in a ragged bark, not understanding why he was so happy. They knew each other only for a short time, but they'd been connected through Dyre, sharing a love that confused Draco more than anything else in the world. He was shocked to find tears in his eyes.

"You're here," he whispered.

She smiled, this time with something much more human. She touched Draco's hand.

"I am."

Though he wanted to, it was awkward to embrace in a tree, and Draco settled for stoking her cheek and scooting so their thighs touched.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

She flashed him a wry look. "I live here."

Draco glanced at the mountain. Yrsa took his hand.

"You came," she said, sounding suddenly young. "I wasn't sure you would, after..."

So she knew. Draco was not surprised, but he knew no more how to finish that sentence than she did. He had been terribly hurt, but he was still somehow here, trying to convince himself that it didn't matter.

"Do you still love him?" she asked.

Draco looked down. "I don't know."

He thought Yrsa might yell at him. (She certainly would have when she was fourteen.) But she clenched her jaw and nodded. She too must have learned over the years that things were never as simple as they were when you were children.

"Do you want it then?"

When Draco stared at her, she pulled a wrapped cloth out of a fold of her dress. She unfolded the linen, presented a palm-sized box made of black walnut. Blanching, Draco took it from her. Some artisan had likened a flower on the surface. It looked like a woman's jewelry box, not a broken piece of soul.

He couldn't speak.

Yrsa turned her face. Though there was nothing but stone to see, her gaze seemed to travel far away. "You don't know what happened that night. You can't." When Draco still did not speak, she sighed. "Dyre died, Draco," she said, giving his name the dark accent that Dyre used to. "The thing that makes a man is not a puzzle. It's not something you can try to fit together. Dyre was human, Draco. For all that most of him was forged in a curse instead of a womb, he was human. He died human."

Draco thumbed the box. "What is this then?"

"Something else." She moved closer, pressing the side of her breast against his arm. "It is what we were given. Listen, Draco. Loved ones die, and people are left behind. So few get the _chance_ that I'm giving you," she said, eyes imploring.

He was so confused. The frustration welled inside him seemed so great that he felt the tremendous urge to throw the box against the Tower.

"Draco," Yrsa called. "Dyre loved you. He asked you to believe in him. If that is too much for you," she released his hand, "then throw it. Damn everything, Draco. Don't think that anyone can judge you for it," she said kindly. "He _choose_ you."

Draco looked down at the box and didn't move. How much easier would it be, just to let it drop? But his thumbs continued to trace the whorls, obsessed and demented, as if they could equate such a thing to Dyre's skin.

"A man is more than his parts," Yrsa said in his ear. Her hands cupped his, and the box between them. "This treasure," she spoke, "has waited a long time for you. It has been passed through the Maidens, always. If it is not the Dyre you remember, it is part of him."

Draco shuddered, not taking his eyes from the box.

"I... I don't... The norns..."

"The norns are a wheel, Draco," she said, finally sounding a bit impatient. "They turn, and they spiral, over and over and over again. Do you think they appear at whim? Do you think they care for mortal wars, that they'd pluck up a babe to save you?"

"What are you saying?" Draco whispered.

He felt Yrsa moving behind him, as if her body was no long attached to the tree or such a meager, mortal thing as gravity. "The Three only follow patterns." She touched his temple tenderly. "I know, Draco. You do not understand. You think it's unfair, that you should lose what you love because of a prophecy."

Yrsa kissed his cheek and laid there, her hair stiff and scratchy against his own. "Have faith, dearest, beloved Draco. He loved you. Even when he was nothing but a murderer's sickness."

His fingers tightened around the box. "It's hard."

"Waiting is always hard," Yrsa said, drawing away. "That's why we weave."

"What's going to happen to you?" he asked, knowing better than to look up.

"The tale is not yet end," she said with a smile in her voice. "Not yet while lovers live."

"He loved you too, Yrsa," Draco said, as she drifted away.

He was alone once more. The sounds of the mountain, the birds and rustle-wind, filled again. With the box against his chest, he continued down the path back to the school.

o.O.o

The boy was still sleeping, the elder and the diminished soul that Lily had claimed from the netherworld. Narcissa was worried that Draco had returned like Lily, changed. He didn't know how to assuage her, not when he wasn't entirely sure it wasn't true. He had returned to Scotland in a daze, hardly remembering most the trip back. He thought Diðriksson might have sent him with an escort, just to make sure he didn't tumble in a ditch or the ocean on the way back.

The room Dyre had been given was peaceful. Magic made a breeze to shift the curtains over a landscape of English hills. The walls were somber, but that was more because they thought he might like that more than bright colors. The only decoration was the vase of daffodils Dumbledore had set on the nightstand. Dyre was beneath calm blue sheets, the soul snuggled against his side.

Draco stood before the bed. His parents, the Marauders, Dumbledore, Snape, and even Victor Krum were beside him, encouragement that felt a great deal more like fear. Yrsa words repeated again and again in his head, riddles he couldn't decipher. He felt miserably lost.

The fake breeze shifted the curtains again, climbing across the room. The child on the bed, for the first time, moved. He took a deep breath, rolling over on his back. He made the motions of someone coming from a deep slumber, opening sleep-fogged eyes.

They'd frozen, no idea what to do. The child gazed about the room sleepily before locking on Draco. His eyes widened, revealing such a wealth of green.

_Dyre's eyes were never that bright_, Draco thought, mesmerized.

The child scooted off the bed, the nightshirt bunching up over his porcelain thighs. He slipped down and padded to him. Standing before Draco, he barely came to his hip. His blazing eyes fixed on the box.

Draco swallowed and offered it to him.

The boy took it. He pressed the side, the sides that Draco had fingered so religiously, hoping to divine some presence from its mediocre surface. The lid popped open. The boy's nimble fingers lifted it from the wood. In a bed of down was an egg.

Draco gaped at it. Such a small, innocuous thing. It was as small as his thumb, round like the moon and soft-looking, like a snake or turtle egg. The boy set the box on the ground, holding the little thing like a marble. Draco stared at him, mouth dry.

The boy looked up at him. Draco knelt. Cupping his empty hand around the shell of Draco's ear, the boy whispered quietly, tickling his hairs. Draco leaned back and stared at him.

With a shy, innocent grin, the boy tampered off, climbing back up on the bed. Shakily, Draco climbed to his feet, reenforced by a hand at his elbow.

The boy leaned close to Dyre's ear, whispering the same way he'd whispered to Draco. He placed the egg on the tip of Dyre's lips then climbed on top of him. With a giggle like a child at play, he lowered his mouth and together swallowed.

Draco didn't know what to expect. The clap, like a sonic boom, was not it. The boy dissolved into millions of crystal light, swirling together as the nightshirt fell to the bed. The light flew into Dyre's open mouth, the world rumbling and shaking around them like an exorcism. There was a strong whooshing, a mountainous sucking, growing louder.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The sound clapped off and the room steadied. The angry flapping of the curtains lulled, the only sound as they had all stopped breathing, staring at the bed. Had a rogue Death Eater stormed the infirmary, Draco would not have been able to move. Save for that insipid curtain, time had stopped, waiting.

The body on the bed was pressed backward, its mouth still dangling open.

Draco's heart skipped as the body sighed, a long, pent-up breath that seemed to come from its very toes. It fell back against the bed, one hand dangling off the side. Draco felt a horrible sense of loss, wondering if that was it. Then, its eyes blinked tiredly open. In the tense, unbelieving silence, the man blinked again before his eyes closed, head lulling to the side to dream again.


	32. The Dreaming of a Dead Boy

_In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;_

_And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring._

_Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity._

~ Kahil Gibran

**April 1999, another Scotland**

Harry tapped his boots against the steps. The rain had not abated, laving everything. Harry shook out his cloak, closing the door on the gale. The silence and darkness of the cabin made him feel like the only man left on earth. Sneezing and shivering, he shot a fire in the hearth, cursing when it revealed the sparse fuel left from the last attempt to shuffle out of the rain. He transfigured a table and began ripping its legs.

When the girth of the flames was comfortable, he pushed his hands against the grate and let the heat slap his face. He heard Buckbeak in the stall beside the house, kicking their shared wall to remind him he hadn't been fed.

"I hear you!" he shouted back, sniffling.

He lit a twig to light the lantern, illuminating the rest of the cottage. The shack could only barely be considered inhabitable. It had been left in disuse for too many decades, void of plumbing or even a bathroom. It was secluded, facing the tyranny of the North Sea. The man who sold it did well enough to replace the rotten lumber, thatch the roof, and drive off the animals that had denned inside, but it was still rudimentary even to wizards, who still did not quite understand the concept of electricity.

He took the lantern and proceeded back outside. The wind whipped rain up from the eave into his side, and he scurried to the other side of the shed where Buckbeak, the ungrateful sod, was flicking his tail and clucking at him. Harry ran inside, banging the gate. Buckbeak made an odd coo that might have been a whinny and tapped his hoof.

He swept a bow, and Buckbeak bowed back without aplomb already rustling through the rucksack on his back. Harry hurriedly threw it off and let the hippogriff root for the grouse he'd bagged.

"Ron thinks you're getting fat," he said petulantly as the sound of Buckbeak crunching bone and ripping flesh filled the room.

The hippogriff glanced up and down his flank, fixing Harry with a curious gaze before returning to his meal. Harry disentangled his bag from the offal, leaving the beast to pick through the remains, and ran back through the rain into his portion of the house.

Once, Harry would have never imagined living in such seclusion. He'd envisioned a home, maybe like the Burrow, where he'd settle down with Ginny, play Quidditch with Ron, and maybe let Hermione harp at him about house elf rights. That was the dream he pretended he could have during the war, after Dumbledore died, the world went to hell, and the search for horocruxes was an exhausted failure. He'd never really thought about what life would actually be like. He'd never pictured it _real_.

It had taken Harry a week after the Final Battle to notice. The wand sitting casually by his nightside after he'd buried it in Dumbledore's grave, the stone heavy in his pocket one morning while he was walking to the Ministry. He'd thrown them away, buried them, bespelled them, given them away, even tried to break them and scatter them in the sea. But they were there again the next day, maybe a week, or somewhere in between, waiting for him.

He didn't know why, if it had something to do with owning them all at once or if it was just another mysterious fluke that made up his miserable life. He thought maybe he could live with it. He'd fought temptation once, buried the souls of the ones he loved in the Forbidden Forest, but it was different then, when it had been a single decision made on the way to his death.

It was publicized that he was the owner of the Elder Wand. He hadn't minded at first, since in some roundabout way, it helped Draco Malfoy stay out of Azkaban. Then, after the dust settled, wizards started attacking him, not some bigoted Death Eater but normal wizards questing for power. Some demanded duels. Others attacked without warning. He'd had his home invaded, his friends endangered, when everything should have been bloody well over.

And how could he give them the wand when he knew the power it possessed? How could he be responsible for that?

He'd _died_, and he still wasn't free.

What kept him awake most nights was the fear that one of those power-hungry bastards would steal Ron or Hermione or Ginny. How could he have kids? How could he trust anybody? And if he somehow managed to survive, what then? Get old and have some kid murder him for it?

As his isolation solidified, his desperation for the stone increased. He was sick with it, turning it in his pocket, dreaming of possibilities. He thought now he might understand why Dumbledore risked the curse to bring back his sister in a moment of madness. God, how he wanted to see his parents again. Sirius, Remus. How could he live with that?

He bought a shack by the sea and holed up to rot on salt brine. The beach front wasn't the lover's retreat that the Shell Cottage was. It didn't provide much of a barrier to the wind, but Harry figured it a fair sight better than the tent he lived in with Ron and Hermione, or the cupboard under the stairs. He'd brought Buckbeak and in addition to the rare dinners with Ron and Hermione, that was all the company he kept.

He made a small meal for himself on poached game, the satisfaction he felt in providing his own food salted by loneliness. He washed the dishes (plenty of bloody rain outside) and sat in front of the fire with a bottle of firewhiskey. He felt pathetic drinking alone, and he could never quite drown out the small, Hermione-like voice in his head that forewarned him becoming a drunk. Merlin, what if summoned his mother while he was pissed? He wouldn't deny it wasn't fear that kept him out of the bottle too.

He spent most afternoon, rather than swigging, watching the amber liquid play with the flames in the hearth. The things he contemplated were things he'd never tell Hermione. She'd skin him. Then, she'd cry.

He closed his eyes. He climbed, almost mechanically, out of his chair towards the table at the other end of the one room house. Though Hermione was a far better researcher, he'd tried his hand at a few books. There was a legion of strewn papers dotted with ink splats and his messy handwriting. He wasn't very smart, and certainly not organized.

He lost his train of thought too easily, jumping from one subject into another whenever it interested him, regardless of whether or not it was useful. What resulted was a chaotic bedlam of half-finished books and interspersed notes that were impossible to reference. Even looking at it gave him a headache.

With a sudden burst of anger, Harry launched the bottle across the room. It smashed against the wall, amber liquid streaming down over the glass. Of course, no one came. No one admonished him, though the other voice, more Snape-like, in his head made quite a surfeit of unneeded commentary.

He banished the mess sullenly, wordlessly, and went to glare out the window into the darkness. Just as quickly, the anger dissipated, leaving him feeling stupid and empty. With one more swig of firewhiskey, he decided to go to bed before he didn't something he couldn't fix.

.o0o.

"Harry?" Hermione called his name.

The fire in the den in the Burrow was much cozier than his own. The mantel was laden with photos. There were children's knickknacks, pieces of toy that had never been returned to the chest, and clumsy handcrafts.

Harry turned to look at her, not quite able to banish the melancholy that had overtaken him. He knew it by her soft gasp and the mist that invaded her eyes. He turned away.

She sat down beside him. She didn't say anything. Somehow, he thought, even when she was eleven, telling him that he was one who had to continue on towards the Philosopher's Stone, she'd always known him.

"It's getting worse," he said, his voice thick. He wanted to bite his tongue.

She took his hand. They stared wordlessly into the fire before Hermione spoke.

"Harry," she started ominously.

Ron came in, though it was almost midnight, when Hermione went quiet, torn and stricken over whatever thought she held. Ron sat down beside her, taking her other hand. Harry glanced away embarrassedly as he placed a kiss on it. He tried to take his hand from Hermione, but she tightened her fingers.

For the first time in months, something warm blossomed softly in his chest. Ron didn't seem bothered by him either, sitting at the foot of the couch with them quietly.

"I've been looking into the origins of the tale from Beetle the Bard," Hermione said suddenly, one of her crazier nonsequitors. "It grew from an older myth, a pagan one," she said. "It wasn't about three brothers but three witches, who had been tricked by a mortal into parting with their magical devices." She leaned her head against Ron's shoulder. "A tooth that could talk to the dead. An eye that could see the future. And a strand of hair that could contain the life of every living being on earth."

Harry didn't know much of anything about mythology or any type of lore that wizards and witches had. The blankness must have shown on his face because Hermione continued.

"A lot of European countries have a tale about three witches. The Parcae in Roman mythology, Moirai in Greek, Norns in norse."

"Of course," Ron said. He pointed up above the mantel. In the beam, there was a well-worn and clumsily drawn figure stamped the wood. Harry couldn't make out most of it. "The Matres. I mean," he said, slightly self-conscious. "They're supposed to watch over the family, but it's just a picture. Superstition, you know, with how mum gets. It's not a spell or anything."

Hermione squinted, trying to study it, but eventually, she settled back against Ron.

"What does this have to do with anything?" Harry asked, staring at the marking.

After a long moment, Hermione answered, "There are different versions of the tale. Like The Tale of Three Brothers, I mean, except for the third brother, most of them end up getting killed or, you know."

Harry didn't blame her not saying. He tried to keep that word as far away from him right now as possible.

She swallowed. "But there's... There's a few where he's cursed. After becoming Master of Death, he just... can't die."

Harry looked at her, horrified. "What are you..." He licked his lips. "What are you saying?"

She bit her lip and didn't answer. Harry stared at her and the guilt and regret that swelled her eyes. He felt like the world was caving into his chest. He could only stare at her in incomprehension. She grabbed his arm.

"We don't know, Harry. There's no way _to_ know," she impressed in a hard, unforgiving voice.

He shook his head, trying to pull away his arm. "I can't do this."

She clung to him, refusing to let go. "What does that mean?" she demanded. "Harry? Harry, don't go do something stupid."

Ron grabbed his bicep. "Don't even, mate. Don't even think about it."

Feeling no strength in his legs, Harry couldn't shake them off. He couldn't even move. He was shaking too hard to do anything.

"Oh, Harry. I shouldn't have told you. I'm so sorry."

Shouldn't have told him? As opposed to what, wondering years down the line why he wasn't dead? Why he was old and alone and miserable and why everyone around him was gone.

"No," he whispered. "I needed to know." He looked at her through red-rimmed eyes and crooked glasses. Her hand fisted and yanked on his sleeve, her fear in wide, glistening eyes. The weight of it was omnipotent and invasive.

The only reason he was still here was for her and Ron. Through all their adventures, their stunning loyalty, that should be enough. But it wasn't. He could almost feel their bond dwindling in the darkness of his thoughts. He would not say that he didn't love them, for it was as fierce and possessive as freeborn dragons.

He felt like what was important about him was being eroded. There was a thought in the back of his mind that almost believed that what was left of him was only a ghost. He thought maybe some part of him that made up the essential code of Harry Potter was lost at that last terminal. That this had very little to do with Hallows. The spirit of his passionate rebellion against death was growing cold, and not even Ron and Hermione could chase it out.

Hermione grabbed his chin, yanking him out of his reverie. Her fingers were painful as she frantically tried to sound the depths of his mind. He knew that this was hard for them. Ron was as stony-faced as he was during his brother's funeral, his eyes suspiciously rimmed.

For some godly, unfathomable reason, Harry felt a calm settle over him. It was like a pall. The inconsistent apathetic drone that had shadowed closer and closer to his heart, which had scared him so, finally wrapped its wings around him. Right while he was sitting with his friends. His guilt for hurting them, his fear, and confusion seemed so inconsequential. While he could still know that he loved them, know the grief of his lost comrades, and the bitterness of their imperfect world, it felt inanimate to him, as factual as the couch behind him.

Hermione's eyes flitted back and forth over his, searching for the cause.

He wished his inspiration came with clever words or some explanation, but he remained as clueless as he always was. He sighed, leaning against the sofa. Hermione's fingers left him when he turned his head, staring at the light reflected over the pictures on the mantel.

"Harry, what is it?" she asked.

"I just realized I've never had to say goodbye before."

Hermione's lip quivered and she started crying. "What are you talking about?"

Ron sat up, watching him dangerously.

Harry spoke, "We have more than anyone else in the world. We've held each other's lives so many times." He looked at his hands.

Ron licked his lips and whispered so quiet and rough that Harry barely heard him. "You're scaring me."

Harry looked at him, his cherrywood eyes, impetuous and stolid. He looked at Hermione, silently crying.

"I'm going to go, and I'm not coming back."

Ron's throat bobbed, and he shook his head. "Wherever you're going, we're coming too!"

Harry rested his hand on his shoulder and waited until Ron looked up. "It's enough," he said gently but firm. "What you've given me is enough. You're done."

"Are you going to die?" Hermione sobbed.

"No," Harry said curiously. "I don't think so. I'm just going to go. I don't want you to think I'm dead."

"I don't understand," Ron said. "Why are you doing this?"

Harry took his hand off Ron's shoulder and placed his arms on his knees. "Because I'm done too. I think."

"Harry," Hermione said tremulously. She touched his arm. "Harry, you're sick."

He frowned, wanting them to understand so badly. He picked cautiously through his words. "If I stay, I'll waste away. I can feel it." He touched his chest. "It feel like... someone's pushing a pillow on my face, but I can't move. Like everything's being muffled, and I'm suffocating. And I know if I don't do something I'll go mad."

Hermione embraced him. "You're not alone, Harry."

He smiled against her hair. His hand encircled her waist, and he closed his eyes. Strangely, the memories didn't flood him like he thought they would. They were there, swimming under the surface, but he was calm. He breathed in Hermione's scent, wanting to imprint it on his brain.

"I love you. You and Ron. More than anything else in the world." He pulled her back. "But I don't feel scared anymore." He cradled her face. "I don't feel alone. I just don't want to be a ghost. The last you see of me, I should be smiling right?"

He smiled to prove his point, and Hermione ducked her head under a fresh bout of tears.

"Is there nothing we can say?" Ron said helplessly, his own track of tears making their way over his cheeks.

"I'd like you to say goodbye."

Ron's lower lip trembled before he wiped a hand over his face. Harry climbed to his feet. He helped Hermione up and waited for Ron to find his feet. Before their eyes could meet, he drew Ron into his arms. His oldest friend's chest heaved, his long arms strong as goal posts. He recalled the kid on the train, how so much of him now relied on meeting and befriending Ron. Even if their roads together hadn't been perfect, they were cherished, like a child's treasure trove of otherwise unremarkable memorabilia. They'd been kindred since then.

"Goodbye, my friend."

Ron shook his head, unable to speak. He released him roughly and turned away, leaning his hands against the mantel. Harry looked at Hermione.

"Clever witch," he said as she near threw herself into his arms, sobbing. "The three of us will always belong to each other." His arms tightened. "You were always there for me," he whispered. "I will always remember you. No matter where I am. You and Ron will always be with me."

He had to force her away. He kissed the top of her head. "Goodbye, Hermione."

And he left.

.o0o.

Harry opened the door to his shack. Buckbeak was grazing. He was still mostly wild and could manage on his own, even if he'd become horribly spoiled. He looked at his ramshackle bedding and uncleaned table with a surreal sense of disbelief. He ran a hand over his face.

He fetched a pot of ink. Kneeling on the floor, he thumbed a roughhewn design. First, the triangle, then the circle, and last the staff. The ink was barely visible on the darkness of the floor, gleaming faintly, and his hands were black.

He leaned back on his thighs. The sun was setting over the cliffs, slanting through the window. He pulled the wrapped cloak from under the bed, placing it at a corner of the triangle and did the same with the Resurrection Stone and Elder Wand. So far, he'd moved automatically, without a wonder to how absurd his actions were. He looked over his work, wondering what was missing. He could feel it like an itch he could just barely reach.

He let his hand waver over the enchantment, the last of the sun climbing along the opposite wall. His hand shook, with excitement more than nerves.

"Come through," was all he whispered in the end, covered in a sense of magic he'd not felt sicne entering Hogwarts for the first time by the lake.

He walked forward, over the edge of the line of the ink. His heart was beating mad, his breath caught somewhat up in his throat. It was some wild, enchanted drum, beating against thighs in the swamps, fens, deserts, and backcountry of the olden worlds. He knew only that he felt like dancing, that every step forward was less of a moving towards or away from something, and more an intricate dance he'd never known he'd learned. Some part of him knew the lunacy of it but after so long in the muffling, he felt like he'd welcome a fire under his skin.

He stepped forward, on nothing but hope, delusion, and magic. Like stepped into a world of dreaming, he could not recall leaving the cottage, nor entering a world of mist. But like the call that had bade him scrawl the runes of the Deathly Hallows on his floorboard, he knew he should keep moving forward, listening to wild lyrics that were and weren't song.

There was a cauldron, a huge thing like the distended black-iron belly of a troll. He came to the rim and peered inside. The seamless liquid inside, like unicorn blood or mercury, formed a mirror, rippling across a vast surface. His image distorted, green eyes winking wickedly back up at him. He looked up from the pool, and three witches stood at the other side of the cauldron, calmly passing the ladle between themselves.

Harry, having risen to his toes to view into the pot, set back down on his heels. The mist curled white around them, making shadows like sun through water.

"I'm returning the Hallows," Harry said.

They continued passing the ladle. They were so coated in silver spiderweb, glistening with dew, that Harry could not tell hair from garment or silk. If they were old or young.

He stared again into the pot. "What are you making?"

"Time," they said.

"What for?" he asked.

They didn't answer.

"Are you death?" Harry asked.

"No," he thought the middle one said. "We are death's spinners."

Harry looked at the potion.

"I'm here to return the Hallows," he said again.

"We know," they said softly. The two on the ends opened their hands. "Choose," they said.

Harry looked between the hands. "I don't know what they mean."

The ladle passed evenly through their hands.

"Choose," they said again.

Harry frowned and studied the hands. They were each lily white and horribly stunted, fat with work and knotted. He shook his head.

"I don't know."

They didn't speak and the hands remained extended, palm up over the jutted slope of heels and knuckles. It wasn't a choice if he didn't know what it meant. He studied the hands again, the wet sleeves over them.

Inexplicably, he found himself drawn to one more than the other. His feet moved of their own accord. The witches remained immobile, stirring. He stopped and tried to understand why he'd chosen that one, when it was no different to its ugly twin.

"Do you need to know why," the middle witch said, "when you've already chosen?"

"But I don't know what I've chosen," Harry said. "What if it's bad?"

"What is bad, Harry Potter?" they asked together.

"But good tortured by it's own thirst and hunger," they said.

"Can you endure thirst?" they said.

"Can you endure hunger?" they said.

Harry frowned. "I think I can."

"Then what have you to fear?" the middle witch asked, like the head of an enormous body.

Harry took a step towards the hand. But though their reasoning was sound, something else bothered him. "What if I hurt others?" he asked them, staring into the eldritch shadows of their hoods.

"Time," they said together, stirring the pot.

He stared into the twisted reflection of his face once more, jumping and blinking and screaming. One folded atop the other, seeming without fault or line. One continuous wave, making illusions in light and shadow. He took the last step towards the witch. He placed his fingers in hers. Neither warmth nor cold met him. She folded their hands together and pulled him up.

"Though the eye of god," a voice said. "We seek no evil."

Harry felt like he was falling apart, like bits and pieces of him were disconnected. The grey goddesses cradled him in a cocoon as he disintegrated and coalesced.

"It is but a veil of truths," another voice, different but the same, prodded inside his sheath.

He could see himself, like a drop in a silent, molten gaze, as clear and silent as the moon, forming his own soup.

"We seek the all-seeing," the goddess sang.

He watched himself, a tiny, weak bead in their mighty hands. Then, he watched himself disappear.

o.O.o

So mote it be.


	33. Death's Dominion

_And death shall have no dominion._

_Dead men naked they shall be one_

_With the man in the wind and the west moon;_

...

Harry drifted. The wings of his cloak wavered around him. Was he dreaming?

There was a pinch at the edge of his fingers, again in his thigh. In vague dissonance, Harry wondered where he was, what was happening, but it was so incorporeal. He realized a moment later that he had no clothes, that the fluttering curtains about him were his own skin, being sewn.

He started to struggle, knowing, for some reason, that that was wrong and painful and he should be scared of pain. Something, almost a hand, leaned against his chest to calm him. The pinching continued, outlining his body, and Harry laid back. It was surreal - more... and less than reality. The whiteness around him that was _warm_. The thin needle invading his silhouette. As more of him was sewn, he felt himself growing heavy. The drugged euphoria ebbed until he could almost feel... something, with senses outside the light.

The strange dreamland - how long had he waned in the twilight - dissipated, leaving Harry with the sensation of being swallowed. He was gulped down, and something snapped, coming together in terrifying completion.

o.O.o

He blinked. Incomprehensible color bled in colosseums of tides. For a minute, he was lost in the mob-like science of thoughts and sensations. Slowly, the cacophony of sensations reformed one by one like toy militia.

The drumming eased, and he sighed, wetting his lips and placing a hand over his splitting headache. Only his hand didn't move. He tried to sit up and found every muscle in his body liquid as if he'd been dueling relentlessly. His body felt like gruel. With a dry groan, he tried to sit up.

Welcome hands spread along his back, helping him up. They moved the pillows. Through the buzz, Harry slowly made out sounds. Words. As he focused, slowly, they came to him, like a trickle from a boarded stream.

"...easy. You haven't moved in a while. You're going to be weak for a while."

Harry stared at the woman. He knew he should know her. Color and shape were beginning to come to him, the light dragged out of her hair as he began to distinguish yellows from golds. Her face came, paler than her hair. Pink mouth. Blue eyes. Finally, dark lashes.

He studied her.

"Do you remember me?" she asked, looking under his eyelids.

Yes, he thought, as the image fell into place in his mind. Narcissa Malfoy. Instantly, his memory of her returned, so complete and unblemished he felt stupid for forgetting.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" he said, his voice sounded worse than the indigestible muck Buckbeak hacked up.

She pressed a glass of water against his lips. He was so grateful he gulped it down without fuss. She pulled it away before he was ready. He didn't recognize the room he was in, surrounded by white curtains that shifted in a soft breeze, and he didn't have his glasses. His wand was missing, and he wasn't wearing clothes he recognized.

"Where am I?" he said.

"Hogwarts," she said. "In a private room in the infirmary."

He watched her, bewilderment. He couldn't move. He could hardly speak. She checked his pulse, and when her wand waved over him, he flinched. She stopped. He watched her through a narrow gaze.

The silence stretched as Harry continued to wait.

"What do you want?" he asked at last.

The last he'd seen of her was during the Malfoy trials. She'd had such a tight grip on her son, as if she alone was responsible for prying him out of a shark tank. She'd looked weary but determined and had given him a very strained nod of gratitude for speaking for them.

"Do you not remember?" she asked.

Every nerve he owned would have reared on end had they been capable. He fought through exhaustion, trying to clear his head. He looked down at the sheets covering him. The last thing he was remembered was eating with Ron and Hermione. They'd been under a lot of stress, and he recalled the Hallows.

He wet his lips. "Was... was there an attack?" Their flat was ridiculously warded, but all he could think of was the way the Hogwarts wards had fallen, the fire and rubble and screaming. He stared at the woman, wondering why she was here to nurse him, wondering if she'd know anything about Ron and Hermione.

She frowned, watching his face as carefully as a potion experiment.

"But you remember me?" she said.

Beyond disturbed, Harry tried to assess her for evidence of concussion or potion. Her hair was tied in a tail, the ends furled. Even at the peak of her family's ruin, he'd not seen her so informal. There was no disgust in her eyes even for her proximity to a halfblood. The tick of strain that seemed engrained in her face from that first glimpse at the Quidditch World Cup was replaced by a type of intensity he'd seen Hermione give goblin treaties.

"You are... Narcissa Malfoy, aren't you?" he said warily.

"I am," she said tightly. "Do you know who you are?"

Fear moved through his bones, sitting in his stomach like a gnome. He felt faint. Something was horribly wrong. He needed to leave, go somewhere safe. Why was he in Hogwarts anyway?

His fingers scrambled incoherently on the sheets. "If this is Hogwarts," he said slowly, watching her beneath his lashes, "then may I speak to Pomfrey, or Minerva?"

Her face only tightened more, looking more confused. "How do you know Minerva?"

Harry's jaw dropped. "You're not Narcissa Malfoy," he said, trying to scramble away. He nearly tipped over the bed.

Someone grabbed his arm, bracing him against robes. He turned to claw away only to come face to face with the last person he expected. The retort died on his tongue, the last meager ounce of his strength fleeing. He stared up at him, feeling sick and light, like he was floating a dangerous distance away from his mind.

Dumbledore's hand was a solid presence on his arm, keeping him from falling off the bed. It was like a disaster. He couldn't look away, even as his horror multiplied.

"Am I upsetting you?" the apparition asked gently, easing him back onto the bed.

When he started to move away, Harry made a fumbling grab for his robes, an awful keening coming unbidden from his lips. Dumbledore's eyes flickered. Cautiously, the old man sat on the bed.

"Sir?" he gasped, grabbing clumsily. "Sir, is it really you?"

"I'm not sure," the apparition said. "Who am I?"

Harry laughed. Wetness trailed his face. It burned his eyes, made the back of his throat clog. "You died, sir," he said shakily. "I saw you. You f-fell." He pressed his forehead against his shoulder. It even smelled real.

So it wasn't the Stone. The niggling fear dissolved.

Hesitantly, a hand touched his back. "Forgive me, son. This may confuse you, but may I ask you a question?"

Harry breathed raggedly through his mouth and nodded. Dumbledore pulled him back gently, looking into his glossy, red-stained face.

"Would you please tell us your name? We need to hear you say it."

Harry stared at that familiar face. He knew. He knew in some distant, unwelcomed part of himself that this couldn't be Dumbledore. He had died. He'd met him at the terminal and the meeting place of life and death. But his face was so familiar. He had the same age, the same sunspots splattered across his cheeks and half-moon spectacles. You can't polyjuice the dead, and where would anyone get that serene magic, caressing all the throbbing wounds of your life with hope.

Harry stopped. He gripped Dumbledore's arms. His magic reached instinctually. It knew the contours of Dumbledore's magic as well as it knew Hogwarts itself. It was like a well-worn piece of jewelry. Harry searched and found nothing, nothing in the place where soft and ancient power had once cradled him on its knee. There was a gaping place instead, a howling, hollowed tunnel.

He looked at Dumbledore in confusion.

"Your name, please."

"You're not Dumbledore," he whispered.

The doppelgänger continued to smile faintly, looking at him expectantly. Against all reason, Harry could not hate him, could not mistrust him.

"H-Harry Potter."

Dumbledore nodded, as if unsurprised. "How did you get here?"

Harry frowned, trying to recall. His head was a mess. He searched, the images sliding over each other.

"I... walked through..." The memory was jumbled, as if it had been folded and cut like a paper snowflake. "I left," he said. "I had to leave or they were going to follow me forever." He stared in Dumbledore's soft, blue eyes. "The old witches. They brought me here, didn't they?"

Dumbledore didn't not answer, looking grim. He rubbed Harry's back. "Do you understand where here is?"

Harry laughed. He felt lightheaded and more than a little loony, feeling a cold tear pass over his cheek again. He touched Dumbledore's cheek. Not his Dumbledore, but some Dumbledore.

That knowledge spread a warmth through him. The possibility that a world existed that had not been ruined was dearer knowledge than if the murders had been erased. He'd never wanted to demean the sacrifices that his friends, and his family, had made for him. Yes, he was selfish enough to want what was stolen returned, but it was enough that there was this place, where possibility and hope still existed not tainted by the Hallows.

What haunted this world he didn't know. He didn't know how Dumbledore had lost his magic. What awful things had happened or who was supposed to wake up on this bed instead of him.

He continued to stare at Dumbledore like a halfwit, so unimaginably grateful that Dumbledore allowed him.

"You should rest," Narcissa's voice finally interrupted. Her thoughts were carefully hidden.

Harry nodded obediently, feeling like the entire thing was another of his dreams. "Are you sure it's alright for me to stay here?" he said tiredly.

She stared at him a long moment.

"Yes," she said simply.

...

_When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,_

_They shall have stars at the elbow and foot;_

_Though they go mad they shall be sane,_

_Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;_

...

Harry reached for her, but he wasn't sure if it was allowed. His muscles were still terribly weak, the taste of potions on his breath foul, but the smell of the May shower out on the veranda instilled such a powerful sense of reality.

He'd been awake on and off for a little under two weeks, hardly able to stay awake for more than an hour or two. He'd only seen Madame Pomfrey, who handed him vials and reapplied the spell for his physical therapy. She was not so different than the witch in his world, though strangely quiet since they were strangers.

Now, the woman in front of him was disturbingly real and even more foreign. He'd only seen her in photos, happily twirling her husband and gushing over her infant son. The woman here was old. He knew she could only be early forties (and Merlin Harry had almost outgrown his parent's age when they died in his world, hadn't he), but she seemed closer to sixty. The age closed in around her face and hair. She had a horrifying collection of scars, furrows down her face like her tears were made of acid. He didn't know any spell that could do that.

He could only stare at her, wide-eyed, because beneath the scars was half a buried memory, a woman with red hair and green eyes. The scars and the way she hovered like a ghost was terrifying, but... Merlin, he could see the same thing burning in her that killed his mother.

He _wanted_ her. So badly. But how could he even ask? He could see the torture she'd suffered for the boy that _should_ have been laying here. She had every right to despise him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He hung on the gallows of her judgement, barely able to keep contact with her eyes.

She floated to him, her robes ending a few centimeters above the ground. Her balance was impeccable, as she sat on the mattress as neatly as if she had feet.

"Can I call you Harry?"

Her voice. He shut his eyes, managing to nod around the stone in his throat. He felt her move and braced himself. Fingers touched lightly on his hand. He sobbed and remained still.

"You have her eyes, your mother," she clarified.

When Lily's fingers met his, shaking, he curled them around hers.

"Were you born on the 31st of July?" she asked. "Do you like vegetable soup, and is your favorite color blue?"

She was so calm. He squeezed her fingers. "The..." He swallowed. "The birthday's the same, but... I like meat pies. And I don't have a favorite color," he whispered.

The witch seemed to give a long, drawn-out sigh. "Well, I guess you'll do anyway."

When Harry rose his head to gape at her, she was smiling. On a face so transformed by ruin, it was astounding, as bizarre and affable as a grin on a bloody-toothed toddler. She forced Harry, despite himself, into a watery smile, ducking his head at the sheer, marvelous cadence of this woman. Harry opened his mouth, but she silenced him with another look and a gentle touch on his cheek.

"It's not your fault, Harry. You didn't kill him." She took a small breath. "I love him, and I love you. No matter what memories you hold, you will always be my son."

Harry stared at her. Was this woman the one who bore him, who carried him preciously through labor and died for him? No. And maybe there were worlds out there where Lily wished she'd never had him.

Harry said, his voice wavering, "But I'm not him."

Lily sat back. "He wasn't the child I bore either." She looked down at the bedding. "I don't know your world. And you don't know ours. What happened is long and complicated. It has parts I still don't understand. And probably never will." She looked at him with eyes bursting like spring. "I don't know why you're here, but I watched my baby die once when he was hardly even... hardly even new to the world," she said painfully. "And I watched him die again. I had _months_ with him, and he was just as different from the child I held in my arms as you are from him now, and I still loved both of them. Very much."

She leaned forward, took his hand, and cradled his cheek again, so Harry had no choice but to listen. "You're him. I had your _soul_ in me, and I don't need anything else." With a deep, calm breath, she backed away from him. "I know it might not be the same for you."

Harry wondered vaguely if she was trying to manipulate him. He'd had enough of his emotions being tied into knots, but Lily was as serene as an emperor, and Harry didn't think that whatever choice he made, she would ever surrender or retreat. The words about what had happened that Halloween night, what his Lily had sacrificed, was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't get the breath to say it. He was not so self-absorbed as to think that what she'd told him had been easy.

He licked his lips. "You... she... my mum died when Voldemort came through the wards. My dad told her to run to the nursery, so he died first. When Voldemort came, he... tried to get you to move, but you wouldn't. So he killed you. I remember because the dementors..." He trailed off, unable.

"How did you survive?" she asked.

Harry fished up a small smile. "Dumbledore, my Dumbledore, says that you made a sacrifice, that it somehow protected me. He tried to kill me, but the curse rebounded."

"The Killing Curse?" she said, astounded.

He nodded, wondering how that night had happened here. His fingers started to move for his forehead, but he remembered that this body didn't have the scar. That more than anything had proven how different this world was.

"I only knew you from pictures," he whispered. He shook his head minutely. "The only... the only memory I have..." Eighteen years later, why was this so hard to say now? "...is when she died." He looked at her, feeling slightly more balanced. "I am not a child. I don't want... I don't _need_, your protection. But..." There was no way to say it, no way to phrase the need in him that didn't call for protection but attention, care, love.

"Good," she said decisively, as if understanding everything he couldn't say. "I'll just murder anyone that threatens you then and no more of this sacrifice business."

Harry gaped at her before throwing his head back and laughing. It thundered around them, melding with her silent, graceful smile. He stopped only when his belly started to ache.

"I love you," he declared, needing nothing more. Not more than ten minutes and he could already tell. It burned through him like nothing he'd felt before, taking up all of his diminished body.

He already admired the woman's strength and courage. In the space of ten minutes, this Lily Potter had managed to quicken his heart, filling a starvation in him that had been so intrinsic he'd not even known it was there. He smiled at her, eyes glistening. Her own smile and stare seemed to echo his pain as she brushed her hand over his cheek again. This time it felt natural as his old holly wand.

"I love you too."

Sunning in her warmth, he could ignore how isolated he was, how he knew nothing about this world, how he had no prospects, no money or shelter, nothing but these people's mercy. He'd had much sparser coffers for a far longer time.

...

_Though lovers be lost, love shall not;_

_And death shall have no dominion._

_- Dylan Thomas_

o.O.o

Draco lingered outside the infirmary. It was a position he'd not taken in three years, before his father had dragged him out and beaten and yelled some sense back into him. It was a different kind of self-pity that had him sitting on the cold tile of the Hogwarts' infirmary. He'd been so helpless then, willing to do anything to numb the pain. His love had never felt less like a fairy tale. It had felt brutal and cruel - deprived. He'd truly believed then that Dyre would keep his promise. It had had him clinging to him like a desperate addict.

All Draco felt now was a great apathy. Dyre was awake, but he didn't remember him. He was a different boy. Draco had no responsibility to this lessened copy. He didn't feel disappointed or angry. Part of him might have been sad, but it was an old sorrow, the same way he felt about the Dyre he'd lost three years ago. He had no connections to this Harry Potter.

Lily Potter stopped in front of him. Her dress swished over her stumps, an inch above the floor. She had a parcel of flowers with her, sunflowers. He wondered if they were the changeling's favorite.

"How long are you planning on sitting here?" she asked.

He looked away. "I'm not waiting for him."

Even to himself, his voice felt hollow. He heard the rustle as she rearranged the flowers on her hip.

"That's not what I said," she said, in a voice he'd often often as a child, when he'd tried too hard to modify his words to avoid confessing to some ill he'd done. "You're doing something. You haven't moved from this spot for two weeks."

"This is no concern of yours," he snapped, looking away. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "You have your son. You're perfectly happy now. So I don't want to hear anything from you."

Lily was silent. Draco was ashamed of himself but he couldn't take the words back. They burned inside him like hot pokers. Lily knelt in front of him, folding her skirts under his knees. Draco flushed, recalling vividly exactly what she'd done to retrieve her son while he'd done nothing at all. When she'd settled, folding her awkward, damaged limbs over themselves, she propped her chin in her palm and watched him.

Lily had always had a different way of dealing with him than anyone else. His petulance and whinging never worked on her. She only waited him out, untouched by his snarls and bitterness.

He buried his head in his arms. "Go away."

"Oh, my little one," she said softly. She hadn't called him that in over a decade. She ran her fingers through his hair. The gentle ministrations made a catch in his chest. He gasped and made a bungled attempt to throw her off. But she'd already done it. The tears were flowing and he was angry at her.

"Stop it! It's been three years! I'm done!"

"You can't decided that, Draco," she said sadly. "It's what you feel."

"I don't want to feel any of this! I didn't ask for this!" He wiped his face, refusing to look at her. She grabbed his chin and forced him to turn.

"You choose Dyre." Her eyes softened. "It's not explainable, Draco. It's not fair or rational. It's love."

He knew that. He already bloody well knew that. He grabbed her arm.

"Why can't I let him go?"

"We all have limits," she said, with her own dark pain. "And... some things are unavoidable and it's impossible to survive. We just have to endure the best we can."

"That's your advice," he scoffed.

She kissed his head. "Do what you want, Draco. If you want to walk through that door." She pointed to the door that hid the the replica. "Or that one," she said, pointing towards the one that led to the hall. "You have to chose. Neither of them are easy."

She rose. When she tittered, he raised his arm, letting her balance on it. She gave him a smile and summoned her flowers. She entered the room. Draco moved into the wall. He stayed there for a long, long while.


End file.
